Thoughts to a Book Never Written

A catch is in a phenomenon of identity itself: when our identities direct our lives, our lives are directed by our prejudices.
Sometimes, when I write down something and find it among my notes, years later, or perhaps it is a quote I wrote down, then I read it, and think, "What the heck, why would I ever want to set it down on paper, to remember it, what's the big deal?"
Perhaps nothing ever said makes a gargantuan difference.  Otherwise, by now I would have written at least one of those books I decided, at one time or other in my life, to write.  All those greatest books ever written were never written.  Not like humanity is lacking because my doubtful talent did not find its way out of the dark corridors of my universe.
Another reason I never write my first book: my prejudice.  If I know something, if I experience something, then surely everyone else in the world knows it, experiences it  as well.  Then why even bother saying it, or trying to explain?  And especially with my widely known ability (!)(?) to explain anything at all? I do not even understand myself when I try to explain something, anything.
Is lying the greatest compulsion we have?  Lying first of all to our own selves, deceiving ourselves as to who we are, what do we represent, and what we know of ourselves.  The truth is, we do not really know much, probably close to nothing, and we are afraid of that not-knowing.  Therefore, fear makes us deceive first ourselves, and then that which we perceive as a dangerous outside.  And that is not necessarily what we think of as our hated enemies. It is our friends, our family, and then the self, again. 
Dig deeper.  Conquer your fear.  Fear is the source of pain.  Become friends with your pain, and you will not be so afraid.