The Delightful Irony of Metathinking

I have been struck down by a terrible malaise. I hesitate to mention it, lest I inflict it upon others - but these, I suspect, are my last few lucid thoughts. Let them be put down, let them become the kernel of human destruction.
As our metro screamed around the curve and pulled into Krasnopresnenskaya, I watched a filthy, brown-skinned wraith - perhaps she was babushka in years past - screaming obscenities at a businessman. He nodded and gave a weak smile, half-ingratiating and half-pleading. And I thought: 'What am I thinking about?'
And in Novoslobodskaya, I saw a young punk on his heels list over and sprawl across the stones, and I though: 'That's all well and good, but what am I thinking about?'
And on Marksistskaya ulitsa, I saw a car reverse into a woman and knock her to the ground with a crunch, and she let out a pitiful cry, and a man got out of the car and yelled abuse at her, but I had no time to be relieved when the militsiya pulled up - I was too busy thinking: 'Yes, what am I thinking about? What is it that I am thinking about?'
I probably have less than a day, and I will be completely mad, mind broken by this endless litany. And then! O then I will have surrendered control, and my thoughts will become separate from my mind, and never again shall they meet. And, of course, among the shattered remnants of my consciousness, it will be impossible to pose the question 'What am I thinking about?'
But I suppose that is the delightful irony of metathinking, is it not?