I found myself enthralled in a podcast today, just a conversation between two. However, in the midst of it, I found myself feeling attacked intellectually by a comment posed. That comment in the sentiment of, a person who loses their curiosity is dead.
I am ignorant, to that there is no question. Of that which I know there are equivalents today never-before known as all things continue to evolve; thus invalidating that which I knew for knowledge gained. That evolution is contingent, in a sense, to the curiosity of others. I have no qualms with that.
Where I begin to falter is in my state of being. As someone who has suffered with depression all of my adult life, I find myself feeling undervalued, whether through self-inflicted negative-think, depressive idiations, or other without first having it had insinuated by others. That is to say, I am inclined to wonder as to the nature of things, but I am not curious about them. Mainly, my lack of will to live, as opposed to being curious and wanting (goal wise) to know or find out more or even learn about an it, surpasses any desire. As such, how is one (I) to wonder without being curious?
I wonder about the permanence of the universe. What is its composition? Is dark matter and dark energy a real substance therein? How far along the infancy of math are we given the complexities of all that surround us? While I wonder about these things, I do not wish to learn of them. As the plumber performs their duties, so do the physicists, and equivalently I do not. I partake in the wonder that is ignorance for its sake. I dare say that without ignorance science would not have strived to continue onwards; for curiosity may serve as a drive, but no less than the desire not to be ignorant; in the sense that within ignorance lies the answers and questions to further our knowledge because in the end, we are but a social animal that relies less in the end to curiosity than in the end to not being ignorant -amidst others.
While I say these things in ignorance, I can’t help but wonder as to the nature of the origin of that comment. Perchance the age of the individual who disposed of the comment as I do tears in my solitude. Age, as I understand, is a great agent to philosophy as well as other things like loneliness, the desire or fear to be forgotten, as well as the remorse of not having done this or that in a world where in doing or not doing those things may have facilitated events we regret. So, perhaps as a defense mechanism, to say that continuity relies on curiosity in fact aids in its prevalence amidst those other truths. Maybe not a defense, a technique with which to veil reality behind the notion of how this or that may help me/them continue onwards despite the body’s decay.
The carcass that carries the brain which encompasses the thoughts of curiosity is the same that has carried my sorrow. To be curious and hopeful or curious and seeking is no more to them than to me is the sadness and darkness that accompanies me. Being curious to me would mean seeking goals that would be marred in the sadness of never becoming, or worse, something to add to the list of failures I have amassed. The never-ending agony is the I, in this state of depression where medicine, therapy, and the continuity of my attempt to be curious as to when I will be healed is no more a lie -to me- than my lack of curiosity is to them.
