Answers. We all want them. We all need them. Or so we think.
From cradle to grave, we as human beings have an inherent passion for knowledge. There is an innate drive to gain a functional understanding of everything in our world. We consistently seek answers from those who consistently oblige- a habit we introduce as young and naïve children.
“Why do we have to go to the store?”
“Because we need to buy food.”
“So we have something to eat.”
“Because we need to live.”
With children, the answers are easy. As we grow older, however, these questions become seemingly more and more impossible and the ability to answer them becomes an aptitude we can only hope to achieve.
But what happens when we can’t? What happens when the people in whom you have instilled your trust for answers can no longer sustain your thirst for understanding? Do you grow angry and indignant? Do we immediately admonish the shortcomings of our sources? Do we seek and claim a higher power as a catch-all net for when there are no words to be said?
On April 15, 2013, two explosions claimed the lives of (at least) three people, injuring over 130 runners and spectators who gathered to celebrate Marathon Monday in Boston, Massachusetts. Officials have not ascertained adequate information to substantiate an arrest, and our tenacious and collective longing for reason has never been stronger.
We all know somebody who knows somebody in Boston. Some of us were reminded of our incredible fortune while others were left wishing for more time or a different ending.
We all wish to give reason to horrible tragedies as they unfold in front of us. But we simply cannot.
What do we tell each other? What do we tell ourselves?
Nothing. I don’t have answers. Nobody has answers. Perhaps there are none. But there is comfort in knowing that you are not alone in not knowing.
I love you, Beantown. You are my home.