I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING - THAT'S WHY I WRITE

This essay explores the idea that true writing begins not from knowledge but from the humility of not knowing. It follows a personal journey of unlearning societal conditioning, letting go of the need to appear wise, and embracing confusion as a creative force. Writing, in this view, is not a performance or declaration of mastery, but an honest act of discovery born from silence, vulnerability, and curiosity. By refusing to become an expert, the writer remains open, free, and real — allowing words to arise not to impress, but to express what is raw, alive, and still unfolding.

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PROLOGUE

I don’t know.

That’s the only honest sentence I can begin with.

Everything else would just be decoration.

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LAYER 1: I GREW UP LEARNING. BUT NOT REALLY LIVING.

They filled me with answers.

Capitals. Formulas. Rules. Morals. History. Success stories.

I learned to repeat them.

I memorized what I was told.

I passed tests.

I earned praise.

But something felt missing.

All that knowing never helped me feel at peace with myself.

I could answer any question — except the ones that actually mattered.

Like: Why am I here? What do I want? What hurts me?

So I started unlearning.

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LAYER 2: I STOPPED PRETENDING TO UNDERSTAND

I didn’t forget facts.

I just stopped pretending I understood everything.

I let myself say, “I don’t know.”

Out loud.

In front of others.

And most importantly, to myself.

It felt like breaking a chain.

That’s when writing began.

Not to explain, but to explore.

Not to teach, but to ask.

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LAYER 3: WRITING BEGAN WHEN MY CERTAINTY ENDED

I don’t write because I’m wise.

I write because I’m curious.

Because I’m still confused.

Because I want to find what’s real,

not what looks good on a page.

When I used to think I knew something, my words felt heavy — even fake.

Now, because I don’t know, they feel light — like I’m letting something go.

Not adding more, but peeling off the layers.

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LAYER 4: EXPERTS CAN’T WRITE WHAT’S ALIVE

Experts write conclusions.

Manuals. Reports. Predictions.

They know too much to wonder.

Too much to pause.

Too much to doubt.

But writing that moves people

comes from someone who’s not trying to look smart —

just someone who’s trying to stay real.

I don’t want to be an expert.

That’s why I can still write.

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LAYER 5: SILENCE WRITES FOR ME

Some days I just sit.

No plan. No goal.

Just a blank page.

Then something stirs.

A memory. A doubt. A small ache.

And a sentence shows up.

I didn’t create it. I just noticed it.

It’s like the words were already there,

waiting for me to stop trying so hard.

I write because I don’t know what’s coming next.

And I want to see where it leads.

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LAYER 6: I HAVE NOTHING TO PROVE

I’m not here to impress anyone.

Not trying to sound wise.

Not chasing approval.

I just want to write something that doesn’t lie.

That doesn’t hide behind polished language or borrowed opinions.

That feels as close to the truth as I can get that day.

And that can only happen when I start with:

“I don’t know.”

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LAYER 7: I DON’T KNOW — AND THAT’S MY FREEDOM

When you admit you don’t know, nobody can trap you.

You’re not defending anything.

You’re not protecting an image.

You’re just here.

Watching.

Feeling.

Asking.

That’s why I write.

Not because I’m full.

But because I’m empty enough to let something pass through.

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EPILOGUE

I don’t know anything.

And that’s exactly why I write.

If one day I start thinking I know,

I’ll stop writing.

Because real writing isn’t about answers.

It’s about honesty.

And honesty always begins with

“I don’t know.”

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