a teaspoon of honey

the art of knowing and the pain that follows

     I love 'knowing' things.

     It's a funny thing to say, but I have always had a strange fascination with facts . . . of all kinds. I have read encyclopaedias cover to cover and — when my mother refused to buy me a third — I devoured every book I could find at our school library.

     It's a strange thing, this. I don't understand it. There's no rhyme or rhythm to it; there is no genre of book of style of music or flavour of cheese or wavelength of light or history of monarch or death of star exempt from it – I realised this a while ago and wondered about how extremely strange this is. Almost as though I am trying to fill a void of some sorts. But am I? Is there a void so inconspicuous and dull that it requires all Jungian interpretations of the human psyche to feel fully satiated?

     I don't know, man. It's weird.

     So, there's the thing: I don't know why I need to know these things, so . . . now I need to know why I need to know these things. It's silly, right? It's futile. It doesn't serve me much observable intellectual purpose. It doesn't visibly help me in my career. It sometimes makes me look pretentious, or just plain creepy. Or maybe it's nothing at all and I am overthinking this.

     But let's overthink this for a moment. What can one possibly gain from knowing all the things? It is not ever humanly possible – not even if we were to live forever. And forever's a long time; imagining living that long and reading every book and living every life and still not knowing.

     (I shiver.)

     Sometimes . . . it's not easy. It's almost a panic. Like I am substantially lacking in some way and the only way I can rectify it is if I fill my brain with 'things'. Other times, it's an escape. When I feel as though I am actually lacking in some way and learning something gives me solace. As though I am still capable of growth. And betterment.

     Most times, though . . . it feels like I am searching. For an explanation . . . God only knows of what. I feel as though I am looking for the all-encompassing unifying equation that will elegantly explain everything in the universe and give me a solution to every quandary I may face. Or some wisdom. Or something.

     And it is tiring, this endless searching. You will never be able to know all the things, because what is knowing, really? What is remembering, memorizing, unearthing? None of it will make sense, and it will be awful, and you feel small and foolish. Desperation will not make you pretty – face long and skin saggy and eyes both empty and stuffed. People will look at you and think, 'she doesn't look too well.' But of course, you don't know what they are thinking, and now you want to, and your eyes will swell even more.

     God, it's awful. You'll want to burn every library in the world. What a stinking, gutting feeling. And you think, maybe not knowing is best, and you stuff a rag down the throat of that voice in your head and you sit. Still. Till the world pauses again.

     Many orthodox scholars of the religious temperament are of the belief that doubt is good but not too good and the thirst for knowledge is fine so long as you're drinking from the right pond. I am not going to comment on that, simply because one never truly knows which pond, or sea, or sky even. It is impossible to draw lines in the water. You cannot swim and suddenly realise, 'this is it. This is where I stop.' You never know when the sand will suddenly turn fatal. You never know.

     But does that mean you don't venture at all? I don't think so. God did not say, 'stay in your comfort zones.' He told us, rather, to: "Recite: In the name of thy Lord who created man from a clot. Recite: And thy Lord is the Most Generous, Who taught by the pen, taught man that which he knew not," and "It is only those who have knowledge among His servants that fear Allah."

     So make of that what you will. Make of the earth, the stars, the sorrows what you will. Make of the books, the lost pages, the manuscripts, the herbs, the sunsets, the songs, the mountains, the eyes, the hunger, the craving, the longing, the ends whatever you will. It is not my place to say. It is not your place to know. 

     But you could.

     And so could I.

     But it won't always be easy. There will be days.

     And on these days, when the knowing becomes too harsh, when the water you wash your eyes with suddenly turns to grit . . . on these days, you should stop. You should tell yourself 'to breathe'. You should get up and walk to the other room. Dust the top shelve of the cupboard. Mop the floors.

     Take tender care of your mind. It is powerful, but oh so fragile.

     But what do you think? Must we/can we/ should we know all the things? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

     But before I leave - a quote:

     "So you used to know everything?"
     She wrinkled her nose. "Everybody did. I told you. It's nothing special, knowing how things work. And you really do have to give it all up if you want to play."
     "To play what?"
     "This," she said. She waved at the house and the sky and the impossible full moon and the skeins and the shawls and clusters of bright stars."
     ― Neil Gaiman, the Ocean at the End of the Lane

All my love,

Chu