"But if you did know, what would it be?"

At the tender age of 18 years-old, I found myself smitten with one Matt Nosich. He was the wandering and philosophizing stuff of dreams, that couldn't have been more masterfully created in the romantic recesses of my dark adolescent mind. For a girl who liked her turtlenecks black, her cigarettes Red, and her coffee without cream or sugar, Matt was my own private Kerouac. Gleaming green eyes were lit from deep within, where idealism and brooding locked horns in a struggle that was only evident in the occasional flicker of dequiet.

As one might expect from a tumultuous tangling that began in the smoking section of a late night dive, the adored Matt -- in practical terms -- ended up being little more than a loitering lothario. But during our short and, at the time, wholly enrapturing relationship, he managed to leave an impression that earned him a place of honor in my pantheon of past paramours -- and perhaps more notably, this blog posting.

Matt's chief attribute was disarmament. He could see through and obliterate any barrier, facade, bluff, hindrance, or obstruction the most adept illusionist or the fiercest self-protectorate might try to employ. It took him all of five minutes to deduce that the sum of my lacerating sarcasm, snobbish intellect, artistic bent, and my carefully contrived confidence was, indeed, an acute and potent self-consciousness. Perhaps no big mystery in retrospect, but I was certainly impressed at the time. In his own psycho-philosophical attempt to analyze the goings-on of my mind, he would ask me probing questions that, then not having a terribly strong sense of who I was, would frequently yield the answer, "I don't know."

"I don't know" was rarely a passable answer for Matt Nosich. Invariably he'd challenge, "But if you did know, what would it be?" I was impressed by the depth of the question and I would furrow my brow in deep contemplation as I tried to conjure a worthy retort. Years later I'd reflect on those caffeine-charged conversations and roll my eyes at such "inspired" rubbish.

But lately, I find myself circumscribed in "I don't knows." In my own battles with anxiety, "I don't know" is the war cry. My last relationship died to the retreating chant of "I don't know." So when, then, do we stop accepting, aiding and abetting the not knowing? When does apathy cease to be coddled? When is indecision no longer an option?

The problem with "I don't' know" is that it is ambiguous and allows involved parties to interpret the meaning or potential outcome quite liberally -- or to avoid an outcome altogether. What I've come to appreciate about Matt's question -- "But if you did know, what would it be?" -- is that it demands some intellectual and emotional accountability. It requires consideration, not default.

I can think of dozens of conversations where I've complacently offered an "I don't know" or accepted one because I didn't have the courage to be honest or I didn't have the confidence to demand honesty. If ignorance is, in fact, bliss, it's the fleeting kind. It's not long before desire for a resolution and the need to know overtakes that breathless bliss and replaces it with the unrest of wondering.