Coming to terms: a journal in parts

I was taught Art--fed books for breakfast, given songs to wipe my tears with, pushed to poetry for solace--and it is through Art's glasses that I look at the world. The search for meaning, and the beauty in it, are innate. I find that I have the need to turn things over and under and look for smoothness, or dents; I question things that don't make sense. I question, to the point of breaking, when I do not find the answers, or when the answers I am pointed toward do not collide with my faiths. I search until I find what I had hoped to find, when I began. The failure to sate my anxieties breaks me. I insist on reading between the lines, even when there are no spaces, no gaps to poke through. My downfall is often my stubborn insistence at the soul in things. Or, is it my salvation?