There might be a novelistic resolution to all of this because at each moment there is some variation of the psychological predicament in play and although you have made little progress in that, through some signature combination of laziness and cowardice, defending the defensible, it has woven a few chapters of a life-story that yet might be illuminated in lucid and disenchanted retrospect, desires and presumptions undone. But instead this other mode of battering against the unyielding which makes no progress at all, and even if it did would refuse to acknowledge it, untiring renewal of the same question which remains open and as unresolved as on the first day it occurred to you to ask. It is not a history of lost illusions but can seem that way since something is driving it, some basic irritation that ought to have been seen through if it was the business of a seer or a doer, or a poor subject that could yield to the soft or not so soft cudgel of irony, could surrender its futility and solitude.