Certainty is an illusion. A seductive one, true, but still nothing more than a mirage. Consider a fundamental question of existence: “What exactly are we made of?” Molecules? Perhaps. But what is a molecule made of? On that, people disagree.
All questions are like this if we look close enough—we can only provide an answer, not the answer. Definitive answers to questions about the human condition, about the world we live in, about anything, do not exist. This notion, whenever it circles back round to me, vaporises pride, obliterates ego, and shatters presumption. It brings me down, closer to reality, and reminds me to open my mind a little wider.