The life of a skeptic
Neven Sesardic
(Lingnan University, Hong Kong:
sesardic@ln.edu.hk)
A baby philosopher?
I know it sounds quite odd,
but this is what I was,
I can swear by god.
When my parents, bless them,
gave me a milk bottle,
I reacted just like
a little Aristotle.
I refused the milk, of course,
for how could I really know
that it wouldn’t make me sick,
rather than gung-ho?
In fact I was so much
overwhelmed by doubt,
that at once I spitted
the yucky white stuff out.
Without justified belief
I wouldn’t change my mood.
They saved my life by giving me
intravenous food.
Alas, afterwards in school
there was little change,
I just had to take on trust
the claims of wider range.
Teachers mumbled something
about mass and speed and forces,
while I couldn’t accept as real
even tables, chairs or horses.
“Two plus two is four,” they yelled,
“The math is doubt-free!”
Yet a cogent proof was missing,
so I begged to disagree.
Between belief and evidence
there’s always a huge gap,
hence I never rush, like other fools,
to accept a lot of crap.
I cleaned my mind of error,
reduced it to a blank slate.
How did it feel, you ask.
Well, absolutely great!
I knew that those like me,
with a critical bent of mind,
would not be very welcome
in this country of the blind.
So I left the school disgusted
and survived collecting trash,
while morons faking knowledge
were earning a lot of cash.
One day I met a pretty girl,
sweet, with many charms,
who wanted to throw herself
right into my open arms.
The inner voice cautioned me:
“This babe, your would-be bride,
for all you know she might well be
a wicked witch inside!”
What could I do but let her go,
the risk was too high to bear.
So I've lived alone and spent my time
by playing solitaire.
Now being old and tired of life
I expect that soon I’ll die,
but as a skeptic I can’t decide
if I should laugh or cry.