Reading this again now, it's pretty pathetic, but at the time it seemed right. It was written for someone else.
There once was a man so desperate for answers, that he forgot why he was asking the questions.
"What is the point?" he would ask himself. But that would only lead to more questions. More and more questions, everywhere he looked. Everyone he saw, everyone he knew, everyone he loved, all brought forth question upon question whenever he encountered them.
One day the man became stuck. He was bored, and so decided to pursue some of his favorite questions. But when he tried, he felt nothing. He could remember all of the questions, and he could ask them, but there was something missing. He no longer felt the questions. This depressed the man greatly. "What is the point?" he asked himself again, as he had so many times before. But even that once trusted question brought forth no emotion. He became enraged, striking walls and throwing books and screaming all the while, until a friend who had come to visit sat him down and calmed him.
"What is the point?" he asked her.
"What is the point of what?" she replied.
The man could not answer her question. In all of his searching, all of his asking, his intent was lost on himself. He had left the motivation, the feeling, the humanity behind for more "noble" pursuits. It was then that he realized that this, here, sitting with her, sitting with anyone--this was the point. It was not the answers to questions that he truely sought, but the questions to the answers which surrounded him completely everyday. He became so overcome with emotion that he wept.
"What is wrong?" his friend asked with concern in her voice.
He looked up from his tears and smiled his broadest smile. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong."
No truer words have ever been spoken.