I decided once that I knew nothing.
Not as a failure, but as a beginning.
When I learned about quantum entanglement—particles linked across distance, responding to each other without messages or commands—it felt strangely familiar.
I had loved a woman like that.
We were connected without control. When one of us changed, the other felt it—not because of intent, but because of shared history. Distance altered nothing essential. Attention changed everything.
The more I tried to define it, the less it behaved.
The moment I tried to use it, it vanished.
Love doesn’t let you send signals on demand.
Neither does entanglement.
That’s the mistake people make: thinking that because something is real, it must be usable.
Some of the most powerful things are not tools. They bind, but they do not obey. Love. Meaning. Presence. Entanglement.
I still know nothing.
But I know more than I did before.
And that, it turns out, is how understanding actually works.
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