The Art of Unknowing

One day we awake with a sense of knowing. Not world capitals, tax codes, or dates. Instead, we know important things — how the moon creates tides within us, the way stars relate to flowers and flowers to horses, the sum of nine plus river. 

We gather answers to questions as if picking apples from a tree.  

It’s all so easy. It’s all so boring.  

We try to amuse ourselves by calculating the aerodynamics of birds, the trajectory of butterflies, the harmony of bees. We play piano concertos by ear, paint masterpieces blindfolded.  

We sigh. We shake our heads. We need to up the stakes.  

We wander in caverns and forests until we’re hopelessly lost. But, of course, we aren’t. We sky-dive without lessons, rock climb without ropes.   

We yearn for ignorance, but the art of unknowing eludes us. Until, one moonlit night.

We find ourselves by placid waters. When we kneel and touch the surface, ripples distort our faces beyond recognition. Perhaps, we think.  

We give ourselves to the oceans, disappearing beneath their currents. We shed our names, the weight of thought, and the burden of knowing.  

We become waves and seafoam. Our answers melt away. We dissolve into the mystery we crave.

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025, nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net, and two Best Small Fictions. His writings have appeared in various journals including Ghost Parachute, Bright Flash Literary Journal, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8. 

A Song for David