a man?

It is always what is written behind, that we seek, some in pause of living, some in living that pause. Yet, none can seize the eluding sense of living the past.
Does a man, pursued by reasoning, reasons by his interpreted acted acts, simply to build on ground that hast been given; or does he nearly lives up to behest of the one that life has given to him? Must the new things, be poisoned by those last that our tongue feels? Where’s the joy of life given? It is hidden under consequences of our life we live sat. And yet, now on my eyes, you may call me blind; perseem nothing to find but that this world human hearts on two hast divid’d. The one, that ken world by action, and gives its parle by things, acts, deeds; and the other that dives deep, with but one question to ask, yet answer they can only feel, on the reason of: “Why?” And the numb man, relives his past, as soon the swoon of conscious makes us rue. When Melpomene brings sweet hush, when our hands reach out but none, do we feel the essence of living, the essence of our being, or is it still that we feel the need to pursue the outer border of being sad and rue? Is it that we always do behold the outer layer and the reactions in it as we threw the obvious?