Existential Crisis

I thought, like a net unknotted, puzzles would be solved. With the question, 'Who am I? What's the purpose of my life? I was wrong. Like the palbeu, no one knew where knots revolved. Each question, like thorns midst blooms, had anxiety and strife. Like winter after fall, when war ends, roguery begins. Uncertainty, like unexpected earthquakes, surfaces. Emptiness and self-contamination rise like past sins. Absurdity and nullity erase life's purposes. People commence their expeditions and never return. Journeys begin in merriment, and with mourning, they end. With writes of fate on each one's head, what can humans discern? Many are kith and kin; but when times are thin, there's no friend. If everything ends with death, what's, then, existence about? Do I have an endless life? This is the soul-swaying doubt.