At the heart of your strivings there is something like a stubborn compass-bearing which renews the sense that there is so much further yet to go in the direction that has so-far yielded you only dead-ends, frustration and the feeling of being lost. There is no other guidance but this confidence in the ultimate correctness of what appears to be no more than a congenital whimsy. Perhaps after all the needle is stuck and its north is just an artifact of your turning about on yourself. Vagrant blunderer, you are no wiser than a moth trapped in a bottle, a futility viewed with compassion and resignation from elsewhere. To be hopelessly mistaken presupposes another awareness that verifies this fact, and so your problem is how to get there from here. You imagine the remote scene where all is revealed, so that you would see not only where you are wrong but exactly why, and how this larger understanding was served by it, how all you stood for was an essential but discarded moment in a an other's dialectic, and you imagine being thanked for it. And so it is impossible to trace out the relation between that final determination and your velleity. You want to maintain your striving at any cost, a paradoxical wish that precludes the sacrifice you need to offer, death you need to suffer.