Questions, Questions, Questions

They’re everywhere. When they get together, they multiply. Once put into motion, they take on a life of their own and it appears there is no end in sight. How big can a question get? Is a profound question more demanding than one that is casually dressed? And, who is to say which is which? Isn’t everything relative, anyway? And, won’t an excess of questions drive us crazy?

How can we possibly sort them all out? There seems to be no stopping them. Just when you think you’ve answered plenty for one guy, or have finally set them aside for good and gone about your business, here comes another one.

First, from birth, there’s, when’s lunch? A bit later, it’s why am I going to school? Sure, there’s learning and everything, but then you wonder about issues of control and conformity, not to mention the rationale for authority. Why can’t I say that? Why can’t I go outside? And, perhaps more importantly, what’s her name?

Dion said it best, why must I be a teenager in love? It’s a bittersweet moment for these teenagers and will lead to other questions that lay the groundwork for a process they call maturation. This maturation has its own set of questions, such as, who am I? Why am/are I/we here? (What!?), and who are you? This is the beginning of a personal philosophy.

This process of maturation and the development of a personal philosophy can take a while. I guess it all depends on when you want to stop or when you’ve had enough and you just can’t take it any longer.

After you’ve settled the serious question of How am I going to make any money, you tackle ones like, Is marriage possible? Or, even desirable? That maturity issue keeps poking its head into things and asks, am I really ready or responsible enough for that kind of thing? And then, what about kids?

A bit later, while looking in the mirror, you turn to your wife and ask, am I getting older? She looks at you, with sympathy. You begin to notice things that bring up questions of their own: What happened? Where are those hairs disappearing? Do I really look like my Dad? And then, the David Byrne question, how did I get here?

My own maturation process tells me that all these questions are Male-specific. And, it’s true. I have no idea what questions women are asking themselves. Which brings up another question, why are they so different? Not that I mind. I’m glad they are, but they’re a mystery.

Some questions just won’t go away, no matter how many times you think you’ve answered them. Who do I think I am? Or, rather, who am I? What is this world all about? Why are things the way they are? What should I do? What’s the best use of my time? Sometimes it’s, are you kidding me? The number and scope of questions is limitless. Which begs the question, why me?

I’ve found that it’s a good plan to pay attention, but to always go with the flow. My favorite question is the one that asks, what exciting thing is going to happen next?
Answers are hard to come by, but there’s always another question.