I ask a question, full of hope and of childish expectations, like a child who expects others to show him some affection, to show him he exists, to love him, in a way.
It's the child who asks the question.
Then, this question "goes" in virtual space. Then, enters the grown up:
as a conscious professional of systematic complication, he re-examines the question a hundred, a thousand times, dissects it, then builds a thousand hypothesis about where it comes from.
To eventually find that the answer is everywhere, here, now, everywhere.
Then, enters the child again, guilty and anguished, ashamed of having disturbed, who tries to apologise for existing so little and sending an email surreptitiously, such as this one. And still hoping to be comforted by a friendly answer. . .
That's it. Welcome at my ego.
It looks like a bad TV game.
But, anyway, it's wonderful.
And thanks for this fruitful virtual space that appealed to me.