Huenemanniac

Are there ideas locked up in an ancient cabinet that springs open if we find the one key, a string of words written or spoken in a perfect sequence, offered with exactly the right intention? Is this how wisdom is discovered?

Or is there only an illusion of depth, some enchanting spell placed upon us through traditions of seemingly meaningful babble, mirages of significance that arise from words applied outside their proper ranges of significance?

Do we deceive ourselves when we think that if only I read the right word, solve the right puzzle, assemble letters in just the right way, I would know just what I am missing and what I need to know to become whole?

Or—and here is where I am tempted to place my bet—is this the kind of question that is both meaningful and unanswerable? Yes, Wittgenstein proclaimed that only answerable questions are meaningful, and the Riddle does not exist—but what if he was wrong? What if there are meaningful, critical questions that have no answers?

Indeed, what if that is all there is? What then?

Then we have no choice but to live with those questions.