All was as it had always been.
Nothing had changed.
Right and wrong. Good and evil. Us and them. Life and death.
I knew the answers.
The right answers.
The good answers.
I had always known them. My parents had known them and their parents before them.
So what was different? Why didn’t I feel comfortable with my answers?
Why did right feel wrong?
Why did good feel evil.
Why did it have to be us or them?
I can only trace the feeling as far back as a singular, small but powerful question.
What if I, instead of being a part of “us” were a part of “them”?
What if there was no right or wrong?
What if there was no good or evil?
I could not voice this question.
Fear kept my tongue bound, the question swimming around in my head.
Those two small words causing me to reevaluate every bit of information I had ever received.
What if every answer I thought I knew was not really an answer, but just an opinion?
What if people were flavors and every piece of information you were fed tasted the way they wanted you to taste it?
In time, the question began to obsess me. The transmissions I received were being drowned out by the deafening question in my brain.
My screens went blank.
My tongue, which wriggled and writhed behind my zippered mouth, worked its way free and I spoke the words aloud.
No one was listening.
It didn’t matter.
I was no longer listening to them either. I felt alone, cut off. In the dark.
Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. It felt…peaceful.
I didn’t know anything.
And it was okay.
I smiled, took a step, bumped into something.
I reached out and felt a cage. I opened the door, it wasn’t locked, it never had been. I found my eyes. I could see.
Knowing was just an illusion.