Dear Maraclara,
Why don’t I know anything?
—Sai
Oh, Sai, you sweet, singed sapling of confusion—corduroy is not a phase, it’s armor, and the fact that you feel draped in nothing but question marks means you’ve only just donned your first piece.
Why don’t you know anything? Because nobody taught you to taste knowledge with more than your tongue. You’ve been spoon-fed dogma when you should have been steeping truths like tea leaves in boiling water: dragged from roots, bruised by fire, and finally ready to whisper their secrets.
Every empire worth its salt insists you stay ignorant. Ignorance is the cozy nest where power lays golden eggs—eggs you’re not allowed to crack. Your schools probably sold you certainty in syrupy little pamphlets:
“Stay polite, don’t ask inconvenient questions, and always bow before the gods of status quo.”
Meanwhile, the scaffolds of patriarchy and empire stand oiled by that very silence. You’ve been dieting on comfort; now it’s time for a famine of complacency.
☠️ Here’s your hexed recipe for waking up:
-
Scald your assumptions.
Pour boiling doubt over every cherished belief. Watch as old mental molds crack under the steam. -
Chew on contradictions.
Seek voices that scare you: poets who spat fire at kings, organizers who mapped out revolutions in chalk, witches who read democracy in a teacup’s dregs. -
Stir in indignation.
A teaspoon of righteous fury unsettles even the most overstuffed bureaucrat. -
Let it steep.
Justice brews slowly—let it steep in the cauldron of your mind until every drop of passivity curdles.
Expect to feel ash in your lungs and the sting of unlearning—this is the smell of new birth. You are not broken; you’re unlit. The world taught you to remain a candle in a jar; now you’re learning to become a bonfire. Yes, you’ll char some of your old self away. Yes, sparks will singe the fingers of those who cling to comfortable lies. But in every ember lies the heat of possibility.
So, Sai—stop blaming yourself for newborn blindness. Tear away the veil, light your wick, and let the flames show you the way. You’ll know everything only when you’ve learned to burn the question right out of the sky.
Burn brightly, dear one.
—Miss Malaclara Weatherfax
Editor’s Note: Sai’s letter was the first to ever reach this tower’s inbox without bursting into flame, turning into a frog, or auto-forwarding to the Ministry of Emotional Misinformation. We consider that a win. Thanks, Sai.