The brain likes to focus;
if we were to verbally presume that every organ has its own such individual feeling then we could say that: the heart likes to pump, the lungs like to respire,
and the brain likes to focus,
and all spend their entire life doing their specific job  --
save the brain in that area of its operations men label, thinking.

The brain’s basic task herein is the same as in its non conscious activities --
survival support, and with thinking (more specifically):
solving problems for which man’s instincts are not programmed;
reacting successfully to unique situations, and generally making his life more comfortable and sustainable,
and when the brain’s thoughts are so engaged,
it is perforce focused, and enjoying its work.
(This is the attraction to thrill sports [skydiving, bungee jumping, race car driving]
for it gives the brain a semblance of the pleasure it would get from reacting to a
truly dangerous situation in a setting prearranged to do the participant no actual harm.)
 

And there is another circumstance wherein the brain experiences a skewed form of focusing pleasure  --   worrying --
the repetitive, impotent replaying of a troublesome thought over and over again;
a sad imitation of actual problem-solving  --
but in a civilized milieu, often all seemingly available.
 

The certain man who has undertaken the rare, ongoing observation of what goes on
in his brain (as much as seems possible in print
since the only thing we have with which to look at the brain is the brain)
is finally aware (at moments when not back, swept away by the brain’s
normal, not-trying-to-look-at-itself  activity)
that a great deal of the thought generated therein when he is in calm circumstances
is nonetheless, worrying, troublesome, disturbing,
but what is more apt to evade his realization is that the brain likes being so engaged,
in spite of the fact that any normal person, if asked directly if they enjoy having frightening thoughts will say:  “Absolutely not” --   but this is not correct;
it cannot be proven otherwise  --   but it need not be, the fact is:
the human brain likes to focus,
and worrying about a matter produces a mild state thereof.

Thus it is that your brain  --  when it has nothing that requires it to focus on
a specific problem  --  will dredge up substitutes:
primarily thinking of situations about which it can do nothing  --
but should and would  --  IF it could
(such things as upcoming surgery concerning a potential deadly ill, or the death of a loved one,
or the loss of a job,  none of which can be affected in any way by any amount of
thinking-about them  --  and yet the brilliant brain does).

In spite of having a life time of experience knowing where this leads --
the brain will still replay thoughts, scenes, and snatches of conversations
based on past or potential future situations about which the brain can do nothing
as though by so doing that it IS accomplishing something.

The certain man’s brain has all of the turns, jerks and quirks of the ordinary man’s (same as a common foot supports both a seven and five foot tall man),
but in an allegorical simile, the certain man’s brain reaches higher;
one spot in his cerebral cortex anomalously protrudes,
and seeks (you might say) to survey the adjacent neural landscape lying slightly below it;
such in fact (if you care to deal in such notions) is the life’s-work of such a man,
and that small, specialized area of his brain.

This investigation will eventually lead to the clear realization that the main part of the thinking brain when it is not by force engaged in serious, survival pertinent
problem solving is running through its dentrite streets  --  insolvable ones;
ones in the past; ones yet to exist; ones about which thought can do nothing;
this is a set up in the mind that some earlier humorists (and the odd botanist) christened:  man’s-daytime-dream-state;
not merely letting his mind aimlessly drift away  --
thinking of non existent ghosties & ghoulies –
but having his brain’s automatically generated thoughts dwell on situations which

As in all matters inside the head of man of which the rest of humanity is not programmed to take note,
the certain man continually asks himself the question --
in a special, indescribable way that is not him literally, asking-himself the question:
"Why does the brain do this? --
Why does the most intelligent thing we know of in the entire universe
engage in activity that by its own experience it knows to be futile?"
(and with ordinary men, worse consequences than that),
and it is exactly this sort of plain, blunt, in-your-own-mental-face, unanswerable inquiry that the certain man employs to get his way  --   to find his way  --
to an secret crossroads of neural connections which, if he visits at midnight,
carrying a suitably scarred Stratocaster and a photograph of Elmore James,
the delightful demons in charge of bringing light in the middle of the dark may appear, and  --   Wham-O!  --   you can suddenly play the blues in G without a capo
(or as the mystics like to say, you: Wake Up!  Wet Your Pants!  See The Truth! and are: Set Free!).

But nothing is possible if you allow your brain to be controlled by the evil forces of corporate recording & booking which makes it focus on who-knows-what  --
but always on matters about which your thoughts can do nothing:
thoughts can only do something regarding themselves,
and the whole trick to that is them getting their hands on themselves,
and even though in print, this is not possible,
something operationally-similar, and result-wise superior to it comes from
the certain man’s relentless pursuit of watching what goes on in his brain  --
--  so much of it useless and meaningless, and asking: "What is really going on here?”