Some questions do not have answers

A cloud of question marks materialise from the humid, rain sodden air, question marks of varying sizes, some pink in colour, others, turquoise. Some are bold, some are italicised, and some are underlined. They buzz and swarm, a dense mass of swirling open-ended questions, occasional tiny flashes of light detonating within the cloud as the bigger questions are raised.

Questions zing about within the cloud, colliding, fragmenting and fusing with one another. Collective, they hum gently with a frenetic energy, like rapidly spinning flywheels riding on near-perfect oil bearings.

The cloud is telepathic. As each magenta, lavender, indigo or ultramarine flash of light illuminate the cloud, I feel, I see the questions being created. The mass of smaller questions are not well resolved, and only serve to throw an uneasy backdrop of uncertainty on my mental state. The larger questions are easily discernable, from important questions like “How will quantum-gravity be formulated?” to less worrying matters like “I wonder if she read the screenplays?” to downright trivial issues to the tone of “When can I afford my own Lotus Elise?”

The universe around the cloud of questions march forward in time, but as Einstein discovered, not necessarily in lock-step. As the previously unknown future becomes history, questions get answered and eliminated.


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When you blog about work, and a colleague finds out about your blog, it is potential bad news. It’s even more amusing if the colleague in question happens to be…

I should shut up already. In fact, I’m pondering if I should censor those screenplays, despite the fact that the goat has bolted the pen. Damage control, I call it. One goat lost is bad enough; let’s not lose the whole herd of 5 million goats. Where then, will the world get its supply of goat’s milk cheese?


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Coincidentally, Some questions do not have answers is a blog by a certain Evelyn who loves baking and chocolates, among other things.


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