Some people just live lives of wreckage. There is no balm, no salve, no fix other than temporary for the kind of meaningless existence they will witness and be forced to tolerate. Some people are just not meant to have what you have, the things, the pat on the back from an old comrade, the sense of accomplishment with your life when you get old enough to reckon some small accolade for surviving life this long, but it never comes, not in any real way. Sure, there are glad-handers, just as much as back-stabbers, but it always ends up laying on the floor, hollow, empty, nothing was there anyway, you just wanted to believe.
Some people were not meant to find anything resembling what you call love in this lifetime, no matter when or how, it will always and forever elude them. And this is something they cannot accept and instead choose to mourn, until their soul slowly disappears into the ruins.
Through portico of my elegant house you stalk
With your wild furies, disturbing garlands of fruit
And the fabulous lutes and peacocks, rending the net
Of all decorum which holds the whirlwind back.
Now, rich order of walls is fallen; rooks croak
Above the appalling ruin; in bleak light
Of your stormy eye, magic takes flight
Like a daunted witch, quitting castle when real days break.
Fractured pillars frame prospects of rock;
While you stand heroic in coat and tie, I sit
Composed in Grecian tunic and psyche-knot,
Rooted to your black look, the play turned tragic:
Which such blight wrought on our bankrupt estate,
What ceremony of words can patch the havoc?
Conversation Among the Ruins