There are questions we will never answer.
And that doesn’t just bother me—it burns.
I’m not talking about cosmic mysteries in a poetic, comforting way. I’m talking about the excruciating weight of caring deeply in a world that offers no guarantees. We are told to accept uncertainty, to make peace with the abyss, to find serenity in the darkness that cannot be lit. But how can one feel at peace while staring into an unlit void? Acceptance shouldn’t mean surrender. And pretending it does only masks the quiet violence of giving up on the questions that matter.
Why must we accept that there are no final answers? Is a human's mind really so fragile that just one answer might break it? Is there really an answer at all? I feel disgust at our blindness, and at how quickly we find refuge in dogma, distraction, or despair instead of staring honestly into the dark.
Were we really designed to know? If not, then why does not-knowing ache so violently? Why this reluctance, this dread, this heavy, grinding weight of uncertainty pressing down on every meaningful choice? If we were never meant to see the full picture of life, of death, why did we get a mind that demands it?
Why are people afraid of the dark? Of the unknown? I do not fear the unknown. I want to look at its face and spit in it, for leaving me in the dark for so long.