'The real cycle you're working on is a cycle called yourself.' (Pirsig) There's no doubt about it, I am a piece of work. I can't imagine any change to myself that would be an improvement, or anything I want that I don't already have. The man who has everything. The man with infinite attributes. (Or God perhaps?)
And yet, there is so much about what I do that is unconscious. I don't want to know, don't need to know what 'makes me go'. 'Know thyself'? Poppycock. What I want to know is out there, not in here. But, as looks increasingly likely, that 'knowledge' is something I shall never achieve; indeed cannot according to my own admission, because it is knowledge that cannot be had without subverting the whole enterprise.
Knowing the reason is as bad as knowing that there is no a reason; knowing the purpose or the meaning is as bad as knowing that there is no purpose or meaning. I know this because I see it with blinding clarity. And still I wait! They say wine improves with age. That's one possibility, observe myself growing old. (I remember remarking once that when I was young the word 'philosophy' conjured up an image of 'old men with beards', and that's just what I have become.) No. That can't be all there is to it. There's something else, something I can't imagine, probably because I lack the imagination (and, no, I don't wish I had a 'better imagination').
Perhaps the idea is as simple as this: to hold a pure question mark up against reality, without wavering even for a second, while my arms go stiff and my muscles throb with pain, ignoring every distraction, including the distractions of my own inner doubts, grinning, grimacing, but never once blinking... that would be a truly monumental achievement. For no purpose at all, not for the praise of others (who cares about the others?), not even for the satisfaction of sheer obstinacy or bloody-mindedness, but just because it is my nature. This is my doom and my destiny. Hurrah!