To Adults (first letter)

Maybe you don’t exist.  Maybe you can’t anymore.  Maybe you’re extinct.  Maybe nobody ever really knows what they’re doing in life, even if they think they do.  Maybe this is at the root of The Fall.  Maybe knowledge without knowing holds civilization (and its discontents) within a state of perpetual adolescence, a sense of inadequacy and shame, a struggle to come into its/our own.  Maybe we’re stuck being Cains and Abels until there’s no one left alive.  Maybe that’s enough maybes…
I might reason that I can understand your suffering, but can I know it?  Are we forever knowledgeable but unknowing?  Did you somehow get past this, to stand alone, to free yourselves of all foreign desire, of any need to be affirmed or acknowledged?  I think you’d despise social media.
Does the construction of knowledge prevent us from knowing?  Who’s to know?  Is this what we’re trying to answer as we give ourselves over to opinions and positions, ideologies and specializations, rules and loyalties?  If everyone is unknowing, do all leaders lie?  Is each parent an imposter?  Do our mothers and fathers die as children, regardless of their age and experience, despite our needs and expectations, all the love we have for one another?
Was the last of you wild, like a cub who must leave the pack to find its own place upon the land, independently integrating within an established ecosystem?  Have you refused to enter the Neolithic City?  Have we walled ourselves off from what we need to mature?  If I could stare into your eyes, what would I see?  Have we unwittingly infantilized ourselves?  Has our self-consciousness generated a simulation of life and how to live it?  Do we deny who we are in trying to rebuild our existence?  Will you emerge again, out of this world we’re so afraid of, and scold us for destroying it before we actually destroy it?
I want to write again if there’s time.
jeremy