In the end it seems you always incarnate some drive. You are one of the ways in which this drive unfolds and articulates itself. And the drive belongs to ... well, humanity in general, it is ancestral, in the blood, etc., because if there is one reason for your existence that can't be rationalised away it's the biological and cultural facticity of your birth. However you came to be here, you hit the deck running.  What you think is yours, the secret task that only you can fulfill is the way that the master idea that expresses this drive feels from the inside, but its truth is on the outside, is its minor place in the matrix of all related ideas, is its being a footnote to a footnote of some great conversation happening elsewhere. So you never know what it is that you express, and you can't know it because only by not knowing it can you express it. The more you strive the more you miss the way, that's exactly what you are supposed to do, yours is not the truth. But you can recognise that what you are directed towards is not the centre, you are not one of the bullets aimed for the heart, but are rather the idea of a short-cut, the idea of getting there indirectly, through detours and errors, side-tracks you are so sure of in the moment. The master idea is that these by-ways necessarily fail, and how can this be expressed except through such a one as you?