I have several medium-sized cardboard boxes sitting around unopened from the last time I moved (about nine months ago). They are nondescript and unlabeled. Just strong, brown, plain boxes. What they hold I do not remember.
If somebody put a gun to my head and said, “Tell me what’s in those boxes or you’ll die!” — well, I’d probably open them up and inform the inquisitive aggressor of the contents. However, if the hypothetical gunman stopped me and insisted that I answer before looking, I would be without a clue:
“Books, perhaps?” I would stammer. “Ok, which ones?” would be the response. Again, I would draw a complete blank.
Clearly, I haven’t missed the utility of whatever lies in those cardboard caskets.
The only certainty is uncertainty; what they hold is — simultaneously — both valuable and worthless. It will take observation to collapse it into a single truth.
I’m sure that the moment I open those boxes, I will be unable to live without whatever they contain.