Probably, the world abounds with talents, and there are heaps of geniality at any corner. Some people catch the gist at the very first sight, some need the second sight, while many just don't need to look, as they are certain about everything in advance. Such are the reason's footholds and starting-points. From time to time, one of the titans of thought condescends to educating the outbred half-wits who are never to get anywhere on their own, and whose minds do not but mimic the others' creativity, trying in vain to enter the games of the brainy of the earth. Well, it isn't much of a toil for an eminent character to write this or that, on a several hundred pages. Take it, and benefit from it. And appreciate their great goodness.
Still, it comes to that the poor creatures like me cannot even properly take the gift of the all-potent; a banal anthropoid lacks loaf to understand what he reads, nothing to say about the slow and wasteful manner of reading that gets stuck at any formula. Every day, I come across a dozen books that are most likely to be worth my reading. It totals up to four thousand a year. Personally, I am utterly unable to assimilate that plentiful wisdom. One can hardly even have enough time to hastily leaf them through. Just arranging the fresh findings on the shelves could take the whole day, since I have first to decide on the proper shelf, which requires at least some understanding of what it's all about.
Sometimes, I may long for some engagement, and it may feel like I too could produce something of interest. But, with single glance at the immense ocean of special literature on any topic, I don't feel entirely well. Doing one's utmost of utmost, one can hardly gain a grain of originality. The folks have long since invented and presented everything in the depths of the thick volumes. Nevertheless, as I come to reading, a bizarre feeling grows. On one hand, indeed, there is nothing that cannot be found. Every thought has already visited somebody's head, every instance of beauty has already emerged somewhere some day. No need to flutter at all. On the other hand, however much reading does not bring any bliss to the soul. They all talk much and say lots of truths, but still there is something wrong about it. Something lacks for convincing perfection.
Well, what if I tried to fix it myself? Never chasing any real discoveries, just having a mental clear-up. As soon as I try, it's utter disappointment. All goes no better than before, and looks crooked from any direction. One even gets obsessed with a crazy thought: what if there is no order in the world at all? Sheer tossing the words, from one book to another... Hence no need to strain the brain, no responsibility. Why? Nobody will see anyway; and those who will see won't understand; and those who understand won't value; and those who value will through it in the garbage. With all that modern abundance, it can be simpler to raise anything from scratch rather than seek for it in a disaster of somebody's wit. Maybe all that there is of outstanding creativity is nothing but great ignorance and great arrogance? Those who are too lazy to dig something out of somebody open new lines of development. Those who dare to put their rotten foot forward make the current swim with them. A half-stuff stimulates universal reflection and makes the progress drag itself along.
Not at all. This is my mental debility that prevents me from observing the entire charm of the present, and I have nothing to offer to anybody. Now, all I can do is to sit aside and sniff mum. To turn over the pages of the wits and put me out on and on. And to keep my silly writings far away from the public attention, on a deserted site never frequented by anybody but spiders and bots, purely for their business needs.
Then take it for what it is. So to say, we're not welcome for all we don't have. As a home exercise, here is a question of an idiot: what if there is some use of the entirely useless? Maybe reluctance (and inability) to understand could is no second to keen intelligence in some respects? Maybe passing without a trace brings in some values beyond ardent self-perpetuation? Maybe geniality is not all in deeds, but also in the casual denial of the deed. May be...
Or may not.