I know so little, yet I know too much.
I know that spring follows winter, then disappears into summer, which wobbles into autumn.
That the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.
That the moon shape-shifts, and coaxes the waves of vast oceans to rise and fall endlessly.
That the stars twinkle while the planets stare.
That wishes may come true, and even when they don’t, it’s OK, because new wishes would have sprouted in their place.
That night follows day, and day follows night, and on and on life goes, in an endless cycle, outlasting us all.
But what if I could wake up and not know if the sun would rise today or not?
If it will rain today or not?
If today is the day for new leaves to sprout or for old leaves to dress themselves in the colours of sunset?
If rain feels cold or warm?
If so much snow will fall that my home will be buried under it?
If I would have the same age-old conversation with you today or it would lead us down an unexpectedly new path?
I know too much, and I want to know too little. In fact, nothing at all.
So that life may present me with surprises at every turn.
Knowledge is the price I am willing to pay for the reward of ceaseless wonder.