Reaching

I am reaching.
Reaching for answers to questions I do not know how to ask, and I am ashamed.
Ashamed, not of my own inadequacies, but of my knowledge of them which none the less leave them unfixed.
Am I not to know the truth of who I am until my day to pass has come?
Can any man know who he is if he has not reached the end of his journey?

What gift, O Gods, this life of learning and experience.
Experience that gives us little by way of answers.
Answers that broach new questions, doubts, and fears that remain unanswered until the day we meet our end.
An end at which we finally see ourselves, in one final moment of bliss, in all that we have been soon to be lost.

I am reaching.
Reaching because it is all I know to do.
Because without reaching, without seeking, without wanting to know, I am nothing.
Nothing which one day will look back in wonder and ask himself, what manner of fool were you?
What manner of man?

What gift, O Gods, this life of constant questioning.
This life that, till now, has seemed but a waste and a pity.
But one which has lead me here, to this place, standing before you naked and proud even as my own heart sinks at the depth of the ocean of questions before me.
A sinking which reminds me that I do indeed have a heart worthy of being called human.
Worthy of reaching.