We admire certainty as though it were armor. Yet I often find it more like a coffin: firm, sealed, and fit only for the dead. My mind has never been comfortable sleeping inside conclusions. It wanders, questions, and contradicts itself, often leaving me looking foolish.
But it would be a poor companion if it refused to roam.
I don’t think curiosity makes us ignorant; it simply reminds us how little we truly possess. The more firmly we grip our certainties, the more they escape through our fingers. A question, however, stays with us, asking to be fed. I have known answers that make men arrogant, but never a sincere question that would.
If there is any modest wisdom I have tasted, it is that we are never finished learning—not even about ourselves. And so I prefer to keep a few questions close to me, like loyal friends. They protect me from believing I know more than I do, and from the heavier danger of believing I need to.