Meaningfulness and Existence

My mind seems too quiet. If I'm out paddling in the kayak, I notice some very soft, low volume words, even phrase-fragments passing through. They don't loiter to have any effect on me. The bright sun, the green leaves flickering, the sound of water as my paddle pierces the surface---all grab my attention. No thoughts develop long enough to demand any attention. Those thought-pieces that do arise have as much distinction as the murmurs of water rippling when a puff of breeze comes by.

Am I getting stupid? I don't have any thoughts of interest. Maybe I've attained nirvana, that peace of mind to which ponderous people speak, often during hushed and reflective moments. I always thought of peace as having a dominance of quiet. A mind mostly made of quietuide may not meander nor moan in discontent. Now the external becomes more interesting, more dominant; so when I'm alone outside, it seems no one is here. I'm worried. If I move among others, they may only see a shell. Someone they call Jeff, looks and moves like Jeff, but Jeff may not be there.

In fact, when I do speak, not enough of Jeff actually gets expressed. I know I have more to posit but the words don't flow well. As if every other sentance comes out. They get the jist but not the beauty, they understand me, but they're not moved. I'm at best a catalyst, a few reference words from me and off they go. At worst, some awkwardness fills the gaps between almost connected words.