The Unanswered Question

I want to expand outward and upward. I don't mean expand, as in to gain weight, or upward, as in to fly. I want to "broaden my horizons." I think I'm ready. With Conviction Curt! I AM ready.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I have a lot of questions like: What is the beat of my own drum? Am I simply being or am I living? I don't know where to find these answers.

I went to the library, but I couldn't find a single book that could help me. Sometimes, I wonder what came first: the question or the answer. What if someone said to you: "Potato! That's obvious!" Would you say, "But what was the question"? Or, would you just nod your head and say, "That was silly of me, I guess I thought you were stuttering."

At Pinkerton's, Mrs. Jewitt told me that I needed a new look. She said a new look means a brand spankin' new beginning. Mrs. Jewitt's husband cuts my hair. His name is Harry, but he died while I was in prison, so I guess he used to cut my hair and I guess his name was Harry. Pinkerton's a corner mart down the street that I've always seen but have never been in, until today. Why did I go in? I guess I wanted to answer the question: What's inside Pinkerton's? And the answer: Mrs. Jewitt, of course. I bought heavy whipping cream from Pinkerton's and Mrs. Jewitt approached me and tugged at my shirt sleeve and said, "Curt Jimenez?"
"That's me," I said.
"It's me," she said.
"It is you," I said, but at the time, I had no idea who she was. The front of her face had grown heavier since I'd last seen her. She was ancient when I went to prison. What does that make her now? Prehistoric? Gee, that's not kind, Curt.
"It's me," she said, "Mrs.--" and then we said, "Jewitt" together.
You know the rest. New Look. New Beginning.

Everyday, a question approaches me and I am quiet with thought. I think that a question is like a whisper that gets misinterpreted as it travels from one mind to another. So then, I try to think of what the question might have been. Other times, the answer will appear before me, like a cross and a bouquet of flowers by the side of the road, small and large, simple and complicated.

Sometimes, one question will answer another. I like when this happens, although, I can't give you a for instance. Maybe you could give me one!

Sometimes, a question settles just beneath your skin and you feel it, but you don't do anything about it. It lies dormant and dangerous, tender and afraid. Dangerous, but soft like whiskers.