The Search

What is the next great thing I must do?
I must find something to do.
It is in my heart that I must
And it is in my heart that I must succeed.
Why must I, you ask?
It is a need, a desire, a raison d’être, a drive.
It is all these things and more,
Yet nothing more than a notion, a thought or a wisp from the future.

Why is my compulsion such as it is?
A heart-felt aching, a burning of the soul, an overwhelming heart’s pain.
It is only what I need or want,
And it is anything I desire.
And yet nothing at all.
Nothing until it is done.

Why do I have wanderlust?
To find the next best thing?
To find what I am seeking, searching and hunting for?
Or do I stay at home at night
Only hoping beyond hope
That my imagination will be sufficient to achieve it?

This I ask and seek the answer, the truth and the reason.
Can you tell me the answer?
And if you do, are you what I am trying to find?
Are you my answer, my desire, my love?
Is that what it means to love?
To find the answers your heart-strings are searching for?

Perhaps, but it is best not to wonder why?
For wondering or questioning or asking is to find yet another quest.
Another search for the answers to your answered question.
It is this that makes us human.
It is this that makes us mortal.
And it is this, in the end that we may find at the end.
Or do we?
Feeble is one who seeks this answer for it is not there
Until you are no longer there to ask it.