I believe I've gained profound insights about myself throughout the years. Specifically, I've come to realize there's a vast amount that I simply don't know. I now understand that true knowing goes beyond mere thought or speculation; it involves meticulous study and a deep, profound knowledge of a subject. I've often confused this depth with something more superficial—a naive belief that the feeling of knowing grants me the authority to be a knower. This, as obvious as it may seem, was a trap I fell into. The pitfall of arrogance and pride is something I must address. I'll strive harder to rectify this transgression and assume less about my own assurances. However, I must be careful not to mistake actions taken to relieve myself of hubris as a debasement against my own abilities—a mistake my fragile ego tends to make. I often ponder what I would confess to someone who would truly listen, someone impartial unlike my father—though it's not his fault, but rather a permanent fixture in our relationship. Other individuals, more broken than I, might label their mental illnesses as horrible menaces to society. I sometimes wish I were such a monster, partly out of jealousy for their innate talent, but also due to my ignorance of their condition. Despite living a better life than most, I find myself complaining. I realize the sorrows of those slightly worse off than me, let alone those born into a living hell, are far more profound. I am but a pale imitation, attempting to create agony within myself just to taste the greatness these men experienced but never truly felt. Even now, as I use the term 'agony,' they would scoff, claiming I don't know its true meaning. Pity-ful. I simply aspire—nothing more. One day, I hope to write great novels and become a formidable intellectual. I aspire to bring about change. Perhaps I will achieve my dreams, and others will cheer me on from their own lives—a gesture I appreciate, even though I find it challenging due to my current self-deprecating mood. Hmm, I wonder, how can I make my prose even more poignant? I have a desire to witness a psychoanalyst perform a mental autopsy on me—to explore the madness lurking inside my head. Alternatively, he might become perplexed, as I appear more normal than even him. I fear both outcomes. At the end of it all, I exclaim, 'Huzzah!' for I am a genius, and this was a brilliant work. Then, I retire for the night, convincing myself that I am sane again. Quick, run before the man wakes again—respite won't come until long after this! Paradoxical Lacanian Psychoanalysis. What a funny name! Scrutinize this, you unappealing bastard you! Goodnight.