Everything/nothing

My quixotic quest for knowledge and truth is foiled even before it is over. Because life is too short.

I regret not being able to read all the books I want to read. There's just too many. The more I read, the more I realize how much I haven't.

I regret not being able to know everything there is to know. There's just too much. The more I know, the more I realize how much I don't.

Then I find solace in Socrates. Well, sort of.

True knowledge exists in knowing that you know nothing, he said.

This is ironic because if I admit that I know nothing, I'm really saying I possess true knowledge. And that is certainly not nothing.

If I admit that I possess true knowledge, then I do know nothing. And isn't that really possessing true knowledge?

Perhaps I find solace not in Socrates, but in irony itself. Well, sort of.