Of all the things I am afraid of, I am most afraid of failing.
I was raised as an achiever; my parents pushed me to be the best - there were no doors that would not open for me, were I to pull them.
They instilled in me a constant need to best myself until in an inertial manner I have surpassed all others in whatever mattered to me most.

I thought, as a child, that this would be enough. Yet, as I grew up, I discovered that there were always others considerably better than myself at what I did; I found out that not all doors are open, and that not all people will like me for striving to make constant progress.

Society has abandoned me, and I have gradually abandoned it in response.
“I don’t need them!”, I said to myself. “They’re just fools!”, I exclaimed.
I decided that all my creations; all my endeavors would be oriented towards impressing intellectuals, regardless of their chosen areas of interest.

I had an egotistical wish to spark within one’s mind the bright shimmer of inspiration that had been cast in mine by many others; to leave behind something grand enough that I would stand out, even in this age of animosity.

But then, the problem. I cannot impress neither society, nor its intellectuals; and worst of all, I cannot impress even myself.

I’ve spent countless hours perfecting my works, I’ve many times lost sleep. I thought, as I was making them, that I would finally create a masterpiece; alas, I created only works which were below average.

I wrote many words; but none as elegant as that of any writer that I’ve read.
I’ve played many songs on my guitar beloved: And yet those songs were heard with pleasure but by me and it; and sometimes, I suppose it sighs and weeps that its owner will never use it to its full potential.
I have painted, I have drawn; what was in the mind and heart as powerful as tidal waves came out depicted as lowly, empty gusts of wind.
I have entered many contests - none of which I’ve ever won.

And then, the more I looked around me, the more I realized the truth about myself.
I am not the best. I am not the wisest. I am not unique. I am not creative.
I have no one, and even my own self is turned against me.
Good readers, I confess - I am a failure as a man.
I have lost all moral values, and there is nothing I believe in any more.
I am fit to be nothing more than an observer. Perhaps that is to be my fate; but in my name, there will be no stories written; and I shall not likely write any myself.
Then, I am fit to be nothing more than nothingness itself.

Funny thing, familiarity: I shall keep moving on, as I have never stopped.