Concern yourself with not my life,
Nor stray a thought of my affairs,
For friend, and former love, alas,
Forgetting waives a heart’s despair;
But should a whim compel us heave,
A casual strolling through past lifetimes,
Would best recall those flitting scenes
Embellished by a garnished sweet lime.
He wished for wisdom, but not the will to use it.
Curiosity is itself a curious thing. What makes it such that one concept engrosses us and another failing to register, even when neither seem particularly relevant to our lives at the given moment? One minute, I come across a seeming trivial fragment of life; the next, I find myself after 2 hours of Wikipedia and Google searches, learning information that will most likely be forgotten within a year or two.
Curious still is what happens when your curiosity fails to be satisfied. The information you sought cannot be found or accessed. What then but disappointment? And yet, the internal source of curiosity does not fade. Perhaps that is the curse that keeps us moving, ever pushing at the edge of our desires for a fragment of the unknowable/unaccessible.
Knowledge for an empty void though. Knowledge that brings no joy other than a joy in knowing. And yet, I seek it anyways. Curiosity is a curious thing.