Revenge of souls ajar

I used to understand my despair. On the clear mind of my youth, the source was identified as the (necessarily true) condition of been unable to please everyone. I called this the perverse limitation. We are not the source of pleasure for the world. Now I see that this was half of a truth that needed to be constructed over many years of lack of socially accepted pleasure. We don't really know what we want, hence, even the allotted share of possible circles of pleasure are imposible because we don't search them. 

I know I'm not the first privileged hand writing from despair. That diminishes nothing of the despair itself. As much as the world doesn't owe me pleasure, I don't owe the world reverence to what has happened before me. I'll cease one day, entirely, and my despair will not ameliorate anyone else's.

Still I resent the pedestrian conditions of it, it's dopamines, it's ideologies, the religious tales that convince us that our struggle was cosmic and that anything mundane to solve it was a mark of low self respect. I wish I loved me so to put the chisel in the rock and just hammered away.