If my brain was a pile of stacked files, there wouldn't be much
found within the file labeled "what I do know." How can you
really know anything? This is a question that we, as humans who
live in search of explanations (for the accidents and
coincidences that fill our daily lives), often stumble upon. I
once put all my faith in facts; I perceived facts as the gateway
to worldly truths. Yet, the population of theories and
experimental data are burgeoning exponentially, and with each
passing day, a new fact is replacing an old one. Truths become
falsehoods, and what have long been considered fallacies are now
esteemed as a scientist's verisimilitudes.
There is one thing I do know better than anyone else: I know me.
I know this goofy-looking, obnoxiously loud, at-times ignorant,
oddball of a creature that is Ali
Tufail (yes, pronounced to-FAIL) Khan. I also know family,
or at least, some semblance of one. I know friends; I know
teachers who surpass the dictionary definition of what makes up a
"teacher;" I know the people in my life that long to be
considered far more than ordinary acquaintances. Oh, and how
could I forget, I know the validity of my pets. I question every
single aspect of this life I'm living, but I don't question the
aforementioned people. I spend hours on end pondering why
something has happened to me, or what reason a poet has for a
syntactical choice in a simple stanza of poetry, but I don't
question the many loves of my life.
And there you have it - love is the answer to this question.
Through love, this inexplicable, undeniable, ever-present emotion
that sucks you in (and has the power to alter your world, as some
clichés say), I know truth. For so long now, I've been considered
emotional. I cry and laugh and shine in joy and fall into the
depth of despair. Yet, emotion is my strength. I know what is
true when I feel that object, that thing to be true. All
questions of why, where, what, and how seem to dissipate into
thin air when I feel the validity of something. No questions
remain, no doubt forms a shadowy, gray cloud above my head; what
does remain is the object, standing besides love, truth, and a
ray of God's light.
| Email this Essay
| Add to reading list