Why do I wake up in the mornings? What drives me to stiffen up my resove and throw myself into the day that lies before me? I have few talents... the only reasonable conjectures at which I've been able to arrive share one motif; I am here to learn.
Why should I learn, though? My thoughts flow alongside Hamlet's during the famous "To be, or not to be" soliliquoy... "Thus conscience does make cowards of us all and thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought."
Why is thought such a recursive process? We ask the same questions over and over, as one question demands another, time and again. This thoughtful contemplation is never boring. Perhaps I would just like a place on which to set my gaze.
Writing is to be preferred before verbal conferences, as being freer from passions and tergiversations.
--Abp. Bramhall.
Even still, much life for long without exposure to passion and fickle feelings tries one's sanity. If only.