Who am I? Why does life happen? How did we ever even learn to write to each other, let alone make this g|ass screen on which I write?
Despite all the technology which will take these electronic pulses to the other side of the world, or print them onto paper, we cannot answer our most basic questions.
They asked Einstein. "What is time?"
"Something you measure with a clock," he is reputed to have said.
'What are you?' I ask myself.
"Something that writes on glass." It is all I can say.
Kant said. "I think therefore I am." What the hell does that mean? Or is it really profound? For truly, I live in my head! Thinking, dreaming, re-living, analysing, wondering.
What sort of me is becoming because I am drinking filtered coffee in a Mercedes Benz showroom? What if I were fifteen, shivering in the winter smoke of a small fire? What sort of me would I be thinking then?
When they finish here, I will take the car back to the office. I will write up the next quote- I'll enjoy that. Build another computer. Fix another problem. On the way home I will watch the people on the train. Some face may touch my soul and I will watch and wonder at the emotions I see there. A nuance of beauty may spark a half sweet ache in my heart. Perhaps I will see the kangaroos at Chidda and smile with a sentiment for furry things. Or loose myself in some Wonder at the world.
But then I will join the same small herd which spurts from the train and straggles off into each evening. Will I have been because I have enjoyed? Or is this the life of quiet desperation? Wandering and wondering in unresolved circles of doubting and questioning that you can't ever really tell anyone. But the bills have to be paid so you go home and go back tomorrow.
I cannot answer my questions but life is not quiet desperation. For there is Wonder. I go on because I want to, not because I have to. Joy and Wonder call me.
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