Do I know the answer?

I close myself to know myself;

Not knowing is an itch, not living is a blur.

I hunt for words to find myself;

But if not living is a blur, is living a curse?

I try, I reignite my senses with a passion best known to unknown thinkers of the world.

Up somewhere, an albatross takes a final flight while a wrinkled face sniggers below.

Here, I wallow in my self-induced misery while an unmistakable pair of knowing eyes revel in their pitiless power.

If power is such a proven tool, is its knowledge not a callous, unfortunate offshoot?

I do have words inside me still;

Expression— I do not.

These words, on some level, have some meaning still;

Manifestation— they do not.

But if expression is an effort, aren't my resilient words worth the effort still?

I hold on to memories and moments;

I rediscover myself with each metamorphosis I leave behind.

Realization often dawns after a million unanswered questions.

Sometimes, all it takes is an alternate life lived in a flash that simply, suddenly whizzes past.

If the befuddled question seeks its direction in the answer, is the answer itself not me, myself?