Who is who and who am I?

The problem seems to lie in the vicinity of me not knowing me.
What's my style? Is this it or is it something else?
What is my muse? Is it life, mine or in general? Or is it mind? Or perhaps stiil, an object of desire?
It may just be this..contemplating about something to be contemplated about.
No....that didn't come out right. I don't even know what i'm talking about. Trying to fill up an eternal place...like a jar of water with a hole in its bottom.
That does sound a lot like my mind..so is my mind my muse? For the last few words it does seem like that.

Suddenly its all gone..*pfft*..just like that. It all seems so ridiculous now.
The guard is back. The iron curtain has been drawn.

I feel mixed up.
Its the same feeling when your stomach seems to be churning with some sort of anxiety or urgency..but you can't pinpoint what it is.
Its aggravating.
What's wrong? Why the inadequacy? Why the feeling of hanging from a cliff..clinging onto the last tuft of grass when you know it'll be a soft landing?
I'm gasping for air in a room full of it.
A manic feeling that passes through like when choking on a fish-bone.
It will pass..I know it will.
It has to.