We are creatures of a narrow band of perception: a thin strip of light, a brief pulse of sound, a fleeting present tense. Beyond these limits lie immensities—structures and dimensions we cannot see, forces we cannot feel, perhaps even forms of order we cannot imagine. To claim that our minds, evolved to read faces and gather fruit, can chart the whole of existence is to mistake the flicker of a candle for the sun.
To know that our knowing is partial is to step back from the arrogance of being “right”. It allows us to recognise that truth may not fit within our categories, that reality may spill beyond the grammar of thought. What we call knowledge might be no more than a set of translations—useful, elegant, but never complete.
There may be higher orders of reality folded invisibly into the one we inhabit, as impossible for us to perceive as colour is to a creature born without eyes. We cannot grasp them, but we can sense the outline of our own blindness. In that awareness lies a kind of reverence.
Perhaps, then, not-knowing is not a failure but a discipline. It teaches us to meet the world without reducing it, to dwell with mystery without trying to own it. To live properly may mean precisely this: to stand before the enormity of what is, not with certainty, but with wonder—letting the unknown be vast, and letting ourselves remain small within it.
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