I hate getting stuck on Why. Why am I this way? Why does the world work that way? Now, I'm not talking about arbitrary trivia like "Why is the sky blue?" I mean existential angst.
There have been periods of my life marked by bliss in the face of meaninglessness. I've been set free, trapped, and freed again by Emptiness. Non-self. The Infinite Everything. ...but it's hard to sustain that sort of ethereal worldview. I savor the special brand of logic that's required to embrace the "No peg, no hole" scenario, but my human nature gets the best of me.
There's no point (and no fun) in denying emotion, but the nature of emotion is to demand attention. I compulsively want to take myself seriously despite my best efforts to let go. (This is probably why I enjoy certain mind altering experiences) Then there's the issue of compulsive curiosity. Who am I? What is This? Where did I put my keys? All valid questions and worth the inquiry, but how about "Why am I?" Ughhh. Gag me with a pitchfork.
The question "Why?" is pure arrogance because it presumes that I know "What."
Why are the dishes so hard to do? Well, what do I mean by "dishes"? As I lay on my bed, nowhere near the kitchen, I am able to conceive of "doing the dishes", but is that concept an accurate representation of reality? Hell no. All the (negative) emotions and memories associated with doing the dishes swirl together and congeal into a thought: Blecch. It's reflexive.
Warm water: pleasant. Soap suds: kinda fun. Accomplishment: satisfying. And yet... Dishes: Blecch.
If I can't even get a grip on warm soapy water, how on Earth am I gonna process something like my sense of self.
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