The way it seems to me, frequently, and for the most part of my life, is that I'm surrounded by a bubble containing the things that make me feel. Such a rich environment, but so small. So contained. So cut off from a lot of things that I have a strong suspicion should matter to me.
And these possible things that matter, they are all the more important, because they're never known or realized fully. I only catch glimpses of strange, important attractions that are happening all around me, full of the meaning of things, but I can only ever discern vague synonyms of the truth.
This is the root of what's wrong with me, I think. I believe that I've just said it fairly clearly. When I read what I just wrote back to myself, I'm surprised that all I need to correct is just a little grammar.
I wonder about myself a lot, mostly because I'm the only sure thing that I can be unsure about. Because I'm inside of me, and I can see my reflection from the outside in. I can't see anyone else like that. I don't think anyone else can, either, except for a living saint, maybe.
So what am I yammering about anyway? I ask myself that. I guess it's just the Question. The always unsolved thing that moves the mitochondria in our cells so that we can continue to try to figure stuff out, because not doing that means death.
If I were to try to say something deep about things, as a product of all of that stuff I just went on about, it would be that figuring out stuff hurts, which is natural, and that we must discern the answers to things through a pain filter.
It seems like an oversimplified, kindergarten answer to a PhD question. And so what? Maybe the meaning of life really is 42. Maybe there is such a thing as infinite mind, which makes our mental meanderings seem like the consciousness of cockroaches.