letters to aught

to the withheld philosopher

receiver's address: where answers don't vanquish curiosity.

sender's address: the local park.

subject: not knowing is an art where answers don't put a lid on an equivocal frame of mind.

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dear sir,

a girl you met in the local park, a girl not more than eight. a girl with brown eyes, that you found "truth seeking". a girl with a green voice that rang in your ears for merely minutes, you said it was "unsettling, vibrating restlessly for answers." a girl you called a "calm squall". a girl i call "me".

i would've asked if you remember me,
but i'd rather not know the answer, atleast not right away,
for you were the one who taught me to find solace in not knowing,
you know, it hasn't always been this way.

the summer of 1985 at the local park, wildflowers blooming as far as my eyes saw, humming bees cutting the wind, a cocktail blue sky filled with the chorus of birds, you, a withheld philosopher, and i, just another curious girl.

as a walked past you, i saw you holding a book. eight year old me always thought that people who read big novels were intellectual philosophers, who had answers to all questions i had.

turns out i had been right,
for you gave me one conversation that i'll never forget,
so i narrate to you of your own words,
a very distinctive snippet.

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"um sir, i have a question, actually, multiple questions." i asked in a hush.

"shoot, kid." you flashed an unreadable, faint smile.

"do rabbits fall from the moon? oh also, how big is the universe and why am i not a bird?"

"before i answer, i'll ask you another question- do you find an unsettling peace in thinking about these questions, and coming up with your own answers?"

"yes, it's fun."

"then if i answer you, i'll deprive you of that joy, won't i?" this took me a minute to absorb, and i finally answered-

"well sir, are you trying to tell me that i should suppress my thirst for questions because answers will deprive me of joy!?"

"kid, is the thirst for questions truly the same as the seeking of answers?" this i never absorbed, not until ten years later.

realising your words flew twenty feet over and beyond my head, you let out a hoarse laugh.

as ridiculous as the idea sounded to me, i could not regard you, holding a novel, to be a madman, so i said-

"your owlish words are beyond my comprehension, both seem the same to me."

"kid, maybe some summer as this, you and i will be on the same frequency. if you remember me, if you've interpreted my words, if our stars align, write to me."

"yes, sir. i will." i turned around to find my mother and you were gone. how would i ever know your address?

"hey gentleman!!! where do i find you?" i screamed into the void.

"find me where answers don't vanquish curiousity, ofcourse!!" i don't know if i heard you correctly, but i'm affirmative i did hear your faint voice from the sky.

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after long nights of pondering, i assume i've reached the same frequency as you. i assume i've surfaced the depth of your words. i don't know whether or not our stars will ever align, but then again, i take comfort in thinking they have, therefore i don't need an answer.

mysteries, are meant to be kept. man is meant to be kept in the dark, not knowing everything beyond his years. if all our questions had answers, it would terminate all exposition.

if everything was written in stone,
how would we ever differentiate between your perspective and mine?
if everything was always known,
you could be me, and i could be divine.

so sir, now that i think of it, maybe you didn't explain your wise words to me, because you wanted me to water my own perspective. or maybe you didn't explain yourself because you had a flight to board, and i'm overthinking everything you said.

i'll never know, and i don't need to know, for i learnt something i'd like to think, a withheld philosopher taught me on the go.

not knowing is an art where answers don't put a lid on an equivocal frame of mind-
this conclusion i've arrived at after countless musing nights,
tell me, oh withheld philosopher,
did i interpret your owlish words right?

yours curiously,
the girl at the local park

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