Where am I going?

So a child asks father or mother, one question that can and does mean many things. What are the answers that mom or dad offer? Is it one that can be reconciled with the child's need to find the answer for his or herself? Or does it work as a propellant, an impetus from whose impact one finds oneself running full speed down a hillside in the dark, not caring where the feet fall. Then, after many close-calls, a voice comes from afar. It was one that was so close so long ago. It is barely audible. There is only a murmur, like the faint running of a brook miles away, like the flow of traffic from the street outside. This voice says the same thing that was once extremely clear, vital, but now it is barely noticeable. It is not a senseless voice, but ambiguous to the highest degree.

Everytime I want to write something, I try to listen to this voice and gradually, though sometimes in a flash, my words echo its indistinct sounds. It all sounds pretentious, doesn't it? But even the light left in the sky will not go away for some time.