Unfiltered Thoughts

It takes a lot of courage and self‑reflection to sit with the truth that you don’t know everything. It takes time — and a different kind of wisdom — to learn that you actually don’t know anything at all. Not the surface‑level knowing, but the deeper knowledge. The truth.

I once considered myself knowledgeable enough — slightly above average in intelligence, at least compared to those who didn’t bother to use their minds. Witty. A formidable debater. A woman with a mind full of random thoughts and facts that could appear on command, almost like my rasta and hippie friends who find themselves profoundly inspired after enjoying the greenery of the earth rolled up and set on fire. I could, in moments, impress even the sharpest person in the room. Usually, I reserved that wit for the most attractive of men or the influential ones whose intelligence I admired and found worthy of such a performance.

I had achievements I could pull out to revive a dull conversation, spark interest, shift the energy. And even though my charisma wasn’t something I wore every day, it was — in my opinion — on full display whenever comprehension and meaningful, thought‑shifting dialogue were required.

Some people called me a know‑it‑all. Haughty. Self‑righteous. A handful of adjectives I always felt were wildly inaccurate. I was misunderstood — and with reason. I was a little weird, in the best way. Others said I was smart, a label I’d quickly dismiss. The truth is, I didn’t even know what “smart” meant. What I did know was how to compensate for what I believed I lacked.

For what I lacked in knowledge or social grace, I made up for with my proclivity to roam rabbit holes and think deeper than the surface. Professionally, I could navigate rooms with poise, charm, and — dare I say — favor. At least to a certain degree. I knew how to temper my tone. I became skilled at code‑switching.

I learned how to read a room, how to use intuition to guide conversations, how to research just enough to contribute something meaningful — often pairing it with conviction and the ability to sell it. But in reality, I didn’t know anything. And what I did know never felt complete.

It seems unnaturally natural that my inclinations — and maybe people’s inclinations in general — are to study the darkest parts of ourselves. I’ve studied the anger I once harbored more than anything else. Add to that the painful emotions, the guilt, the shadows I locked away. If so much of my attention went there, where was the inclination to learn the brighter parts of life? Where was the desire to fully commit to anything of worth?

Now I study. I research. I listen. And still, something feels missing. The truth is what’s missing. But where do you even begin to find it? It feels arrogant to believe that once I discover it, I’ll know it. Yet I know — without wavering — that this sentiment is true.

Like the far‑past times and portals I’ve seen in dreams, I know they’re real. And I know that what’s withheld from me holds far more truth than what I’ve been told. It’s as though the truth is buried beneath the tragedies I dug holes for. I learned early how to bury anger in the deep crevices of my mind — the ones hidden like the crease between two rocks touching. A place that looks small from the outside but opens into an entire world that makes no sense. My own personal Mariana Trench.

I like to believe that trench holds the memories my mind protects me from but can’t fully contain, so sometimes they slip through — just like some truths. I’ve stored many things there. I might have stored the truth there. And if I did, I wonder if that anger is a reflection — no, a symptom — of the truth that’s hidden from me.

Though I recognize the truth by its familiarity when I’m close, I still know nothing about anything.

Sitting with the fact that I really don’t know anything is hard. It feels like being defrauded by my own mind. Realizing that most of my assumptions were skewed, surface‑level, or plainly inaccurate — often based on limited information someone else fed me. Not that they were always wrong, but they were only fragments of a larger truth. A truth still unfolding.

I understand that I may never have the full picture. It’s like seeing one puzzle piece and convincing yourself you know what the image will be, only to discover something entirely different as more pieces connect. That has been the most deceptive part.

I’ve always had this way of knowing things without proof — but mostly for others, hardly ever for myself. I could introduce someone to their future spouse, name a secret I shouldn’t know, sense something inevitable. Yet when it came to me, something was always hidden. Right there, but unavailable.

The focus of my attention may be factual and accurate on its face, but even then, there’s more beneath the surface than my first observations reveal. Something is missing. A piece of information that — for the life of me — refuses to be revealed.

I know that I know nothing, but I feel everything. I have since I was a child. And since childhood, I knew there was more to the story.

And I can’t call it, even though I can sense what’s missing. I can almost touch it, though it’s not physically there. There’s always something missing. A dynamic. A vital component. And it always feels the same.

There is an “aha” that refuses to show itself. And it nags me.

Sometimes it consumes me. It’s that puzzle piece — the one that always becomes something else. The more pieces I connect, the more I realize how much is still missing.

Hmm…

The part that’s missing is the part that always makes my assumptions wrong. It’s the information I don’t yet have. The space I rush to fill. The truth I try to name before it’s ready.

Maybe if I wait — it will reveal itself in time.