I do not know

I do not know the extent to which I have hurt other human beings and other livings.
I do not know whether my days are worthwhile or worthless.
I do not know whether money is truly evil and the cause and source of other evils.
I do not know how hard I make it for others to see me, or for me to see myself.
I do not know whether I am really there when I ask after myself, even in my certainty.
I do not know whether a single god has ever visited this earth.
I do not know if this earth has one divine thing on it.
I do not know what is holy, and what is simply plain.
I do not know whether there is the slightest distance between the holy and the plain.
I do not know if there is really a space between me and everything else.
I do not know exactly what it is that I take in when I breathe, what I leave when I breathe out.
I do not know what the organs beneath my skin are doing all the time.
I do not know if there is a heaven or a hell or other such impossible places.
I do not know whether the fire is heat or if the fire is the inability to be hot itself
I do not know what I will remember tomorrow, let alone next year and years from now.
I do not know whether I might become a snail at death, full consciousness and dreams encased within a snail's body.
I do not know whether my love is really sincere, or whether my love is really there.
I do not know what to read in those faces, and whether all the faces I see are meant for me.
I do not know whether this thing in my hand is an omen or the blabbering of emptiness.
I do not know if there is the slightest difference between an omen and the blabbering of emptiness.
I do not know if perhaps the big bang is happening all the time, perhaps it is happening now inside my chest.
I do not know what space and time are, or whether I can say anything about what they are.
I do not know whether perhaps I am space and I am time, I am the field where all things occur.
I do not know whether I can ever say anything about what I am.
I do not know a way to travel even to the edge of the bottomless bottom of who I am.
I do not know whether the world is composed of crude blocks of gold and filth, or whether it is composed of fantasies and films of longing.
I do not know if the beginning had a beginning, and know nothing at all of that beginning in turn.
I do not know whether I have been honest with myself and others.
I do not know the extent to which I have hurt others.
I do not know the extent to which other human beings and other livings have been disgusted by me.
I do not know what happens when my friends and my family die, or when strangers die.
I do not know what happens when all of the livings surrounding me die as they must.
I do not know precisely what the earth does with the unmentioned piles and mountains of the dead.
I do not know whether every iota of existence will recur without one iota of difference.
I do not know how many languages there have been in the history of the earth, I do not know exactly how many there are now.
I do not know whether the voice I am hearing is madness or holiness or just a dumb and passing thing.
I do not know whether there is the slightest difference between madness and holiness and stupid passing things.
I do not know that Jesus the messiah spoke to the Samaratin woman by the well, and that He spoke to her in confidence.
I do not know how deeply Thomas reached his fingers into the stigmata of the Holy One.
I do not know what is a blessing and what is a curse.
I do not know when I know my curses whether they might be blessings, and when I know my blessings whether they might be curses.
I do not know if I might be a blind and terrible fool.
I do not know whether every being I encounter might contain the entire unfolding drama.
I do not know if there is an end to all things, or if it is a start we could never relate to.
I do not know what the end of all things could possibly be other than revelation.
I do not know what creation could be other than God coming to love the scattered dust of God's own mind.
I do not know what any of our illusions are other than other forms of truth.
I do not know what our truths are other than other forms of illusion.
I do not know what a world can be other than one shared world.
I do not know whether my age is approaching singularity and destiny or whether it has taken manifold missteps.
I do not know how long Draupadi stared into all the heavens in her son's mouth.
I do not know whether there has been anything evil or anything good on this earth, or anywhere at all.
I do not know whether I am approaching singularity and destiny, or whether I have taken manifold missteps.
I do not know how many promises I have broken.
I do not know whether some of the most important people in my life are dying right now, just died, or died sometime without me knowing.
I do not know whether there will be one good song played at my funeral.
I do not know whether the worm or the beetle or the smaller beings will enjoy my body more as it rots.
I do not know what the first joke about the whole of my life will be after my death among the chatter of the living.
I do not know whether the whole of things might be one great trick with no end.
I do not know whether the whole of things might be one great revelation with no end.
I do not know if there is the slightest difference between one long trick and one long revelation.
I do not know if perhaps not knowing reveals as much as knowing.
I do not know whether not knowing might perhaps be more brilliant than any knowing.
I do not know which is more profound, darkness or brilliance.
I do not know which is more necessary, profundity or surface.
I do not know which is more wondrous, necessity or chance,
I do not know which is more lovely, wonder or calculation.
I do not know which calls out for more affirmation, the lovely or precisely the unlovely and unloveable.
I do not know the extent to which I have hurt other beings, other human beings and other livings.