The Hall of Philosophy

It all seems so simple really, so very black and white. But there is a missing piece, you know, and that’s the problem. I am searching for something and I don’t know what it is.

I was certain that I would find the answer in the Hall of Philosophy. But I never did. I searched for several years there listening to all their questions about reality and such. I studied every question and each answer was so logical. But I never found the real answer; all I really found was more questions. It was as if each new answer led to another question. Or maybe I just never really understood. Much of the failure, I am sure, was my fault because I was going to ask them straight out, but could never bring myself to it. I felt like they would know if anyone did, but it was so very embarrassing to ask.

I remember literally being in my Father’s arms in the Main Hall the first time I saw the carved mahogany entryway to the Hall of Philosophy. How magnificent it was - and still is. No one knows how old it is and they keep the columns polished almost to a sparkle. No lights are necessary. They would detract from its silent elegance. But it was not only special. It was like, you know, God. It had no flare, no attraction, just solid wisdom. There is no other entryway on the entire Main Hallway that can compare to it. The Hall of Science is close, but it lacks the solidity that the mahogany columns give to the Hall of Philosophy. It is more elegant than the Hall of Mathematics and, of course, the Hall of Pleasure is garish beyond description when compared to Philosophy.

Inside of Philosophy are wizened old men who sit in leather chairs with large tomes set high upon shelves in a silent library. Everything there speaks of hidden knowledge. Even as a very young boy, I could not stay away. I knew even then that ultimately I would be a candidate there.

And, when I came of age, indeed I was, and it was my father who did it.

I still remember that evening when we walked out of our door and down to Philosophy and they opened the door to me. He was so very proud, and so was I. I felt like I was on the edge of something great, and I could hardly believe it when they accepted me. I stayed there for almost three years.

The first thing that I discovered was that there are sometimes different answers to the same question. It is not at all like Mathematics where there is just one answer. And in Philosophy, each of the different answers opens into entirely new rooms of reason and systematic logic. Sometimes the answer depends on what room you happen to be in. I think everybody should spend some time there.

I liked it until I began to suspect that no one really had all of the answers. Each of the answers seemed to lead to another question, and I was ending up with more questions than answers. And I never really got to my own question.

I began to suspect that the professors were just as interested in the questions as they were in the answers, and I could not find the place where it all came to a final conclusion. Whenever you got to where you were trying to get, it seemed like there was always something back behind you that was just a little out of place.

They were all so very wise but I knew that in spite of how smart they were none had the answer for my question. And I often wondered if some of them were dealing with the same riddle but never spoke of it—just like me.

So, one day, I found myself back in the Main Hall looking for a different way.