Each time I awake, I recall that I don’t know what I am, as a conscious awareness, presumed to arise from flesh and blood, from atoms, ions, and a molecular flood. A brain of pulsing pinkness then soon dead grey, before it burns or rots away? Is that me, or is there more, a spirit, soul, or secret we can’t see? What truly am I, and what are we? And when I decide to rise, heaving this body that lifts from my bed, did I really choose to do that or just unthinking chemistry inside my head? Am I a bouncing pinball, that molecular flippers play, or a creative dancer, truly choosing my way? Did things ever start, and will they ever end? How did life arise, and to where will it send? Knowledge is mere description, of an ultimate we don’t know. Not explanation, just here’s what came, and what comes, and how it may go. And so now, the glass moves, because I moved it. I moved it, to make it move, and observe how the light changes, reflected, diffracted, magnified and shrunk, all options explored, until I turn to drink beer and leave questions ignored. But why? Ah… there's the nub, to adapt a phrase, the essence of the ultimate question of life and light, and motive, intent, and freedom to shape the days. Freely? You think? Ach... Drink. Sigh... Stop asking why.
