Ever so often

Ever so often
I ask myself:
who am I?
and find no answer.

All I see
is a lost me.
A hundred impulses
pulling me in different directions.

Confused dreams,
moments of happiness
and fear and sadness,
all running into each other.

What I see (or don't?)
scares me.
I wish there was more to my story,
something more than an unfinished dream.

But perhaps this uncertainty
is as much a part of being,
As the feeling of being,
Because can the answer exist without the question?