First few years. No questions. Serenity.
7th birthday. Still no questions. But answers! They start giving answers to questions I don’t have.
17th birthday. I do have questions now. Do I look for answers? But they already have been pumping my head full of these for a decade. . Pretty convenient. Could those uninvited answers be wrong? I have asked that from parents. Asked teachers. I am warned never to ask again. I am trying to enter a forbidden territory, they say. Whatever I am told is the absolute truth, they say. The ultimate truth, they say. Because? Because they say so. Because someone else said so.
I ask for evidence. They’ve got it, they say.
“It cannot be cross-examined, as a rule. It is immune to criticism”, they say. Good. These measures maintain the prestige and assertiveness of the “evidence”. These rules defend its followers from the agony of dissonance.
Everything is going on well. Life is beautiful. Until…
I find the evidence fallacious.
But I keep the secret to myself.
They learn anyway.
Questions no more.
Life no more.