Coming to writing

In the beginning,
I adored.
What I adored was human.
Not persons;
Not totalities,
Not defined and named beings.
But signs.
Flashes of being that glanced off me,
Kindling me.
And the sign withdrew.
Vanished.
While I burned on,
And consumed myself wholly.
What had reached me,
So powerfully cast from a human body,
Was Beauty:
There was a face,
With all the mysteries inscribed,
And preserved on it;
I was before it.
I sensed that there was a beyond,
To which I had access,
An unlimited place.
The look incited me,
And also forbade me to enter;
I was outside,
In a state of animal watchfulness.
A desire was seeking its home.
I was that desire.
I was the question.
The question with this strange destiny:
To seek,
To pursue the answers that will appease it,
That will annul it.
What prompts it,
Animates it,
Makes it want to be asked,
Is the feeling that somewhere,
Once it is through the door,
There is the face that promises,
The answer for which one continues to move onward,
Because of which one can never rest,
For the love which one holds back from renouncing,
From giving in
-to death.
Yet,
What misfortune if the question should happen to meet its answer!
Its end!