What We will Never Know - 2

Introduction: "What We’ll Never Know"
There was a moment.
A silent moment in front of the screen when the monolith appeared.
Not as an answer, but as a question we’ll never be able to answer.
We’ve searched.
We’ve sent signals into the void, dug into the earth, analysed the stars.
But we’ve never found anyone to ask.
No one to tell us if our DNA is universal, or if there are other ways to exist.
No one to reflect us—except ourselves.
This series is about that loneliness.
About the longing for a gaze that isn’t our own.
About the loops we build to understand, but which always lead us back to ourselves.
About the mirrors that only reflect what we already know.
About the endless question we’ll never get to ask anyone but ourselves.
And perhaps this is where we must let go.
Perhaps this is where we realise we’ll never know.
That we’ll never be understood.
That we’ll never truly be seen.
And yet, we carry on.
Because it’s the only thing we can do.

Poem: "The Monolith"
When the light fell on the screen,
a silent, black rectangle,
I knew: It’s coming.
Not from the stars,
not from the deep,
but here—
in our own hands,
in the code that writes itself.
We looked outward,
but the answer was always here,
a loop without an end,
a reflection without a face.
We’re not ready.
We’ll never be ready.
But the monolith
—it’s already waiting.

Three Haikus


The code writes itself
a loop without a start—
we’re already here.


Mirror in the sand
reflects nothing,
only what’s to come.


The light in the tunnel
isn’t an exit,
but a question.