It's a Cold Constellation And a Breathful of Mud

Again, if you're averse to bleak, unkempt recesses, stop now...

I never expected such an utter absence.  The nurture of my childhood left me ill-prepared for the chill winds of adult winter.  Perhaps the endorphin cocktail was simply never mixed properly.  It's possible that the fingerprinted lenses of my perspective are so caked with grease that the luminance of joy no longer permeates.  Hell, maybe I'm just an idiot.  Regardless, the entire roller coaster has sunk into the swamp; the peaks now barely reach ground level and the valleys are abysmal.  If popular culture is to be believed, then we can all get by with a little help from our friends, people who need people are the luckiest people and you only get out what you put in.  So what's the next platitude?  What fills the need when there is no help, when you put everything in and gasp longingly to taste the minuscule return?  How do I stop asking questions when there have proven to be exactly no answers?  The options are grim.  Have I not inspired compatriots along my path?  Or is it that people just don't behave the way I expect them to?  So many of my words are spent tearing down a world that I seemingly despise.  I'd like to think that they catalyze important thought.  The sad, trite truth is that the world detests me, has no use for me.  And I don't know what to do with that.  I want to help.  I want to contribute.  I want the best for you all.  And, believe it or not, I want to be happy.  Someday I hope to awake from this nightmare, but I doubt such relief is forthcoming.  All I'll say is to cherish every ounce of grace you're granted, for all things disappear.