Do you ever wonder if it’s all questions? If the whole world itself is one big question filled with questions and questions about those questions and so on? Have you ever considered the possibility that what we call answers are maybe just scared questions trying to look confident? Do I look good in this suit? What if no one loves me? What’s the square root of loneliness?
Do you think that maybe we avoid the really important questions because we just assume that someone else has it under control? But what if no one has it under control? What if no one really knows anything? What if everyone is equally made of questions and we’re all just faking the answers?
What are you having for dinner? Why? Where did your dinner come from? Do you think we are what we eat? What if we’re also made of the way what we eat became what we’re eating? Would we then be a little bit screwed? Why or why not? Do you believe in God? Is He nice? Just? Why does He hate me? How do you know? By what strange turn of events was it even possible for you to get out of bed this morning? How many fingers am I holding up?
What’s the meanest thing you’ve ever done? Why did you do that? Was it a terrible action or are you a terrible person? How do you answer that question when we’re talking about other terrible actions and/or terrible people? Of all the things to possibly remember, why is my first memory of myself in a closet playing with a train? Why do we remember what we do? Are we perhaps remembering chapters of a book that’s already outlined?
Did you see what I did there? Did you notice the way I used a book as a metaphor for our lives? How do you know you’re not just a character in a book? You feel like more than that, don’t you? But don’t you think characters in books feel like more than characters in books too? But they’re not, are they? Then why you? Why you? Why me? How did I get here? What’s a me for? Why do I always feel like I’m doing it wrong and like I’m wasting my time? What would right look like? What else could I possibly be doing? Is there anything else to do?
Do you ever look at your kids with the certainty that you’ve caused them irreparable damage? What did you expect? I mean, who did you expect your kids to turn out to be? Did you seriously think that your kids would make it to adulthood without, like the rest of us, being inexhaustibly and fantastically broken? Do you think the moon blames itself for the night? Or does it just shine like an arrogant pearl? What is the value of guilt? How many jewels has guilt put in your pocket? What if, instead of believing in God, we believed in rocks and water?
Is this all there is? Could there possibly be more? Compared to what?
Read more from me at Black Hockey Jesus.
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