Without Question

 

At this stage of my life I find I am surrounded by like creatures.  Everyone is close to the same age, each has had a wide range of experiences, they have lived and traveled in different locations, and yet the common thread now is that no one questions each other.

Before we reached this age, we questioned everything, we didn’t simply stop after, “What’s your name?”  We wondered what they did for a living, how many children did they have and all sorts of things in an attempt to see if they were going to make good friends or not.

Sometimes we’d questioned them to see if we were in competition for the same job and how did we stack up against their life experience and education, so we were also cautious in our answers.

Each person is a book, a complete novel, filled with various characters and adventures.  Some much more adventurous than others, and maybe even dangerous.

Today, these books are old, their pages yellowed, their covers worn.  A little dusty, they’re content to sit quietly on the shelf, some missing their appendix, some with replacement joints and all lacking a dedication.  

I’m not sure if the lack of questions stems from a belief that they are beyond the time of making new friends or simply they don’t care.  They are familiar with their chapters and cannot see any value in leafing through the pages of someone else’s story.

Personally, I’m still curious.  I see a room of old books, sitting there playing cards, jabbering on about the weather and I can’t help but imagine what adventures are tucked inside.  To me, it makes no difference if it turns out to be an archaeological dig that turns up nothing, or a children’s story, its far more interesting than another prediction of rain.