I'm afraid I'm just a fool

I let myself ramble on sometimes. It sounds alright when I start talking, every sentence seems like a valid point. People are listening, so why not speak? The words form meaningful sentences in my head, they flutter of my tongue as if to convey some deep potent perspective of me, my hobbies or existance in general.

Kind of like the guy I talked to today. He probably thought the things he was saying would be conveyed the way he wanted it to. He was trying to give insight, but I totally didn't see it the same way he probably meant it.

Ironically, later on, I did the same thing, though I didn't realize it until just now.

In a moment of pride or perhaps extreme desire to be recognized as someone who has potential to write, I told those around me at the dinner table that I'm not just any normal blogger. I try to write amusing non-fiction essays about my personal life that are humorous. They nodded, giving me the benefit of the doubt. No need to burst my bubble, it's just a conversation.

When I came home, I decided to check my own blog to find these wonderful things that I had written. They are, after all, my memories which I have encapsulated for all time within this blog.

I found maybe two within the last six months hidden amongst the tirades, the random meaningless blurbs, and the hyperactive posts of sillyness. The foot's already in my mouth, maybe I am just another blogger. In my own defense though, it's hard to write elegantly every day of the week.

We also talked about how I wrote two chapters of a novel back in highschool. When I found it five years later and read it, I was disgusted at my own writing. At the time, I probably thought it was brilliant. I must be a child prodigy. I would be a New York Times best seller.

I wonder if I'll read those one or two non-fiction essay style blogs hidden within my shenanigans five years from now and feel the same way.

I don't want to write like a high school kid with more aspiration than skill for the rest of my life.