Why is such a pesky little word.
Sometimes I do not know why. I know that I must, or I could, or I should, or dare I even say that I know I ought. Yet, rarely, rarely ever do I know why. This makes me free in a lot of ways. I think it means that I trust myself, and since I hate why I can just accept that I have always had a strong sense of self, that I trust myself to know enough to make whatever decision, or action, or etcetera, and I can move on with my life.
I don’t want to give you the impression that I live unexamined for I reflect on decisions all the time. But I hate reflecting on the why. I think about how I felt when, or who was with me, and where I was then in life and where I am now because of it. Why is not a part of my vocabulary. When I read in the local newspaper about a story of a crash that has happened just hours before, I find myself frustrated that there is not a second-by-second diagram of the cars' movement or a root cause analysis waiting for me in the article. The Boston Globe is not in the business of reconstructing car crashes on Route 1 but I am so fundamentally uncomfortable with why that when I am force to think about what may have caused a crash with no answers… words fail.
Me and my relationship to why is particularly unfortunate because I don’t ask myself “why not”. I leave alternatives on the table. I keep my path and my instinctual decisions and my knowns.
Whys move me further away from doing. Whys make me unmotivated.
There’s more to write here, but you’ll never guess, I don’t have the words in me tonight. They flew away… and I don’t know why… and if I have to ask that question… then frankly it’s not for me to know.