The Why of it

Why don’t we ask “Why?” more?

We might find important things if we asked why — things with more precise meaning and definition that my use of the word “things” might suggest. Why am I pouring words on a page, for example, and what shall I do with them? Why do I even want to do anything with them? Is this the day I stop writing because I have lost the why or misplaced the why or realized I never had a why in the first place? Or do I recall the child-me would put words on the page because it was fun, recapture that child’s why, and keep writing for the rest of my life? Is it the why or the fun that is more important — and, of course, why would that be?

Or, ecclesiastically speaking, would we find that all is meaningless in the end? And what do we mean by meaning, anyway? Does anything or everything have to have a purpose or a utility? Is existence not enough enough? One must admit — mustn’t one? — that existence is a good start. You can’t have a why or a purpose if you don’t exist and/or never existed.

If all is meaningless, though, why do I ramble on for page after page? Because I want to, of course — I want to spread proverbial wings and climb proverbial mountains, but most of all I want to write words on paper because that is how I have had fun for almost 70 years, ever since I first saw markings appear where I touched utensil to paper, ran to Mom and said, “I made this!!”

That’s why.

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