I cannot help but ponder upon and wonder of, if all my musings and thought, the time spent in mental and spiritual exploration of this Universe, time spent in search of answers to the great philosophical questions which now seem so relevant and of such great consequence, if in the end of my time here on this earth as the conscious being I know myself to be, will appear to hold the same value then as now.
If the answer to this contemplation be no, then why is it I seem not able to do otherwise?
Could it be there is something amiss within my brain causing such? It is a dilemma caused by a simple chemical imbalance? Too little iron or maybe a disproportionate amount of this element compared to that element composing my physical body. Possibly there is a communication problem between the hemispheres of my brain. Or even a chronic, yet not terminal, case of misfiring synapses, something very much akin to a record spinning on a player, the needle caught in a single groove repeatedly playing the same notes, all the while each spin of the turntable allowing the needle to carve deeper and deeper this single groove until at last there is no hope of ever enjoying the song in full? Could it truly be something this elementary?
Let us say even one of these postulates be truth, what then? What is my recourse? Would I desire to partake of an elixir formulated to purge myself of such deliberation and study?
As I sit here now I would be inclined to answer this question with a fervent no. To be desirous of change I would need perceive a quandary of, at the very least, significant and substantial proportion; and in all honesty, I cannot say this to be my reality. In simpler terms, I enjoy my affliction, if indeed affliction it be!
