I think,
but without Descartes' insistence that I am.
In fact, the more I think, the less confident I am about knowing what "being" means.
I think - without knowing,
and recognize the hazard of that condition.
It's what got Socrates killed.
A smart person who claims to know may raise hackles,
but is dismissed as arrogant.
It's the smart person who admits he doesn't know...
[let's hope I'm not wrongly classed among them]
... that's the one who arouses murderous intent.
For what hope exists for priests, professors, or politicians -
or any of the many oracles of our age -
when the most astute confess that uncertainty is inescapable?
What airy sands are our castles built upon?
And, yet, I think.
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry, Thoughts and tagged poem, poetry, Thinking, Thought, Uncertainty by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.