To question is a fairly cherished ability in the eyes of the simple-minded, and arguably, beyond. It’s quite beautiful in its own intimate way, for a mere sporadic thought of inquiring confusion can spark, rarely bigger or more significant than a spark of a flame itself. One single, tiny grain of curiosity is all it begins as, and yet one minute puzzlement could indefinitely morph the bounding molds of the beholder, for rarely does a trivial curiosity remain at its level of insignificance. That infinitesimal puzzlement soon spreads rapidly like virus to each curve and crevasse of your brain, not merely embracing your cortex and suffocating your cranium, but sinking into each millimeter of terrain as if it were quicksand. And beneath the thin surface of your control system, hiding behind each wrinkle and through each directed action, your brain is hardly yours anymore. You are alive, you are tortured, you are awakened. Lying at the tip of each fingernail is a liable answer and if not, yet another question to clasp a fist around the base of your neck and steal you to a new state of awakening. You are fueled by this ever-kindling flame as it controls everything that you do, that drives every word your lips form, all braced by the itch of this no longer insignificant curiosity, but now, a question. And, let me inform you, let me scratch this itch of yours, until this thirst is quenched, until your puzzlement is given relief with absolution, you are your question.
You see, I am a child of question. A girl. A woman maybe? I don’t know. I’m a being of many, many questions because none of my questions were ever answered.
Please, allow me to keep us in an equal understanding: I am hardly a simpleton, never under the short-reached extents of a fool. In fact, a sizeable sum of my questions I had answered myself. They are none but theories, of course, but what could truly be one hundred percent consoled as truth? Even what the average, educated mind understands as accuracy could very well but nothing but an assumption supported by coincidences. The term one in a million, when the theory of these coincidences emerges, is typically brought up, as if that one in a million verifies the unrealistic nature of the thought. As if that one in a million is a synonymic euphemism for never. But, ah, here is yet another question I answered myself: what is never? What is nothing? I believe there is no such thing. One in a million is slight, but a possibility, as two in two million results in two lucky contesters, despite from how many people they rose.
Shall I quench yet another of your inevitable questions, unvoiced anywhere but your mind? Who am I?
In truth – and this is definitely truth – I don’t really know.