The (Possibly) Pointless Writings of a (Possibly) Meaningless Writer

I can't think to say things. I can think to write. Give me enough time and I could write something that sounds impressive. Give me the same amount of time and I still won't think of anything worthwhile to say. It's who I am. It sucks at times, but it's who I am. It's why I want to be by myself. Why it would be better if I knew no one. I could live in solitude, be a recluse, and write. Send my writings to the world. Send my pain to the world. No one will read what I write regardless. Whether I know people or not, my writings will fail. They may be impressive, but people don't read. Why do I love what no one enjoys? Why do I find the most useless things to do with my life? So I could try to say things, know people, hold conversations, make speeches, shit like that, and fail. Or I could spend my life writing and fail in the minds of others regardless. Maybe it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Maybe I'm the one that matters when it comes to my own life. Or maybe I mean nothing; perhaps I'm insignificant. The latter seems more likely. Maybe it doesn't matter that I fail because I don't matter. But I don't want to believe that. I want to believe that I have purpose. Do I want to think that whether or not I do? Do I prefer myself over the truth? I don't know the answer to that. I know the answer to nothing. I know nothing. My conclusion to this is just that: that I know nothing. For what point have proved here, what truth have I unveiled? Absolutely none.