digging for answers to everything

Indeed, I am lost in the fog of preoccupation with what is expected. I speak of expectations borne not from within yet without, without my preoccupation that being with the present all things within but in the span of a day, say from sunrise to dusk, that which is within and without is nearly impossible to decipher as more than one. This is my plight. Let us not begin to speak of double-consciousness or dreams or passion, only simple thought. Am I really here? Is all this noise the only benchmark for what I am, was, to become? Am I experienced say in the way Jimi was? Will I die a genius of the blues young? Will I grow old and un-wise; die in room drowning with unanswered questions? Are answers worth dying for?