Where am I now?

The thinking writing me (this one; here) is at the stage of frustration.
There are questions, but I know the answers that will be given. I know that asking the questions and getting the answers is really just the neurotic behaviour of a caged animal.
Knowing this doesn't help.

Meanwhile the me that is the PC, the table, my wife and family, the sunset, the food, the crops in the field, goes on quite happily, unperturbed by my anguished though erudite musings.
The crops grow on. The sun sets.

The questioning now is like a reflex, a tendency. It happens and I can see it happen, but it's not attached to a ball and chain.
It comes and goes.

At one time, the questioning seemed like the most important thing, the only thing.
Not now. The books talk of urgency but I don't feel it, not anymore.
If there's one thing I'm interested in, it's this, but this isn't going to go away.
It can't be lost.

So I'll go on playing out the patterns, the roles; seeker, finder, thinker, doer, none of the above.
In the meanwhile, the grass grows itself and my lungs work without me doing anything.



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