Unquestology: The Philosophy Beyond the Philosopher

 Philosophy often begins with a question. For me, that question wasn’t monumental or unique—it wasn’t “What is the meaning of life?” or “Does God exist?” It was smaller, quieter: What if questions themselves are more important than the answers? For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to questions—ones that lingered, refused to resolve, and seemed to stretch endlessly outward. As a child, I didn’t call it philosophy. It was just the way my mind worked, lingering on ideas that didn’t have easy conclusions. I didn’t know that years later, this way of thinking would evolve into what I now call Unquestology. But Unquestology didn’t come to me fully formed. It wasn’t an epiphany or a grand realization. It grew slowly, shaped by life’s moments—some ordinary, some extraordinary—and by daily reflections that seemed to spiral endlessly outward, like questions chasing their own horizons. One of the most vivid moments that shaped me came years later, after I left the United States for the Dominican Republic. At 18, I joined the Discalced Carmelite Friars, a Roman Catholic religious order. We lived on top of a mountain in a monastery-like building, where days were filled with prayers, meditations, and philosophical study. I was there to pursue the priesthood, drawn by the structure and depth of a life dedicated to thought and devotion. At night, when the city lights would shut off—a regular occurrence in that country—we would climb to the rooftop. The rooftop was safe to lie on, and I’d often find myself stretched out on my back, staring up at the stars. Without the light pollution, the sky transformed into something vast and incomprehensibly beautiful. Sometimes I’d bring my guitar and play music, letting the notes flow freely, like questions without answers. Other times, we’d sit silently, a group of us—religious brothers and friends—simply existing in the vastness. We didn’t need to speak; the stars asked the questions for us. I hadn’t yet received the religious habit—the brown tunic and rosary that symbolized a deeper commitment to the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. That came after four years, typically in Honduras, after the first vows were made. But even without the habit, I felt deeply immersed in the monastic life and its rhythm of devotion and reflection. During the day, we studied philosophy at a nearby college, sharing classrooms with students from all over the world—atheists, agnostics, believers from different traditions. The conversations in those philosophy classes were electric. Here we were, religious brothers, sitting alongside students whose worldviews couldn’t have been more different from ours. We debated, we questioned, we explored—not to convert or convince, but to understand. It was there that I learned the beauty of questions that don’t seek resolution but instead invite dialogue. These experiences stayed with me, even after I left the order and returned to the United States. They shaped the core of what would become Unquestology. Philosophy isn’t really created; it’s uncovered. The questions at the heart of Unquestology aren’t mine—they belong to anyone who has ever wondered. Why are we here? What lies beyond what we know? Why do we feel compelled to ask these questions at all? I’ve spent months refining Unquestology, often without taking a single day off. At times, the work feels endless, like chasing the horizon. And yet, every time I return to it, I find something new—a different way of phrasing an idea, a question I hadn’t considered before, or a connection I hadn’t seen. This process of constant refinement isn’t just about shaping Unquestology; it’s about discovering it. There’s a paradox here that I find fascinating: The more I refine Unquestology, the less it feels like “mine.” It feels universal, as though it has always existed in the space between questions and answers. My role isn’t to own it, but to articulate it, to shape it in a way that others can explore. Unquestology isn’t revolutionary, and it’s not meant to be. It doesn’t claim to solve life’s mysteries or offer final truths. Instead, it’s a reminder that the act of questioning is itself an answer—a way of being, a way of connecting with the infinite. As I reflect on this journey, I wonder: Can a philosophy outgrow the person who articulated it? What happens when something you create begins to feel like it’s teaching you? These questions have no answers, and perhaps that’s fitting. After all, Unquestology is not about resolving questions—it’s about living with them. If there’s one thing I hope others take from Unquestology, it’s this: Questions are not obstacles to be overcome. They are invitations to wonder, to imagine, to explore. And in the end, they are what make life worth living.