I sat on the plane last night thinking about how we all have to live with our own share of unanswered questions. Whether it’s “Who ate my sandwich?” or “Who are my real parents?” we each have to live with one mystery or another. Even the creation of the universe remains a mystery too complex for our human minds to grasp.
Sometimes, we search for the answers to our own questions much like how a reader reads a book: we want to know how the story ends and how the characters resolve their individual issues. If we live with some questions for too long we eventually feel a certain detachment that makes us look at the situation like we would any other story. Whichever direction the answers go wouldn’t change us in any way except to provide us with the much needed conclusion to the unending turn of events.
Is it better not to know? For a storyteller, an open ending leaves much room for imagination; for the inquisitive reader, however, it is a source of great anxiety. Now and again, we decide whether we are reading or telling certain chapters of our own story.