Enchantment Somehow Never Lasts

The wind is so gently gusting through my window, carrying in it's arms the scent of rain. I hear through the darkness the symphony of leaves as they are whipped by the promise of a storm--to and fro--and it feels just like my heart. Whipped. Tattered. In darkness. Torn. Who is this sad person that I've become, always craving, always longing, and never completely satisfied? It does not matter who I am with or what I am doing-- I'm lonely. But I wonder, does anyone ever feel completely not alone?
I crave this solitude like I crave the air that I breathe, but at the same time it sickens me to my core because I want to know that someone, somewhere truly cares. But maybe the only one who truly cares I've grown into the habit of ignoring simply because I'd rather live with the person I think I am, than who I truly am.
The wind has stopped now, and that enchanting scent of rain is fading away, slowly. I think of all that I think I am, all that I've done, all that I've lived and learned, whether good or bad. I think of the crickets chirping outside my window, as they call for a mate to carry on the line of crickets in the neighborhood. Then, when the winter season comes, they die, decompose, and return to the dust from which they came, just like I shall one day. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes, man will return from whence he came... and what will I have accomplished in my few and troublesome days? More pain, more sin, more heartache and disease? What will I have brought to the world, or more importantly, to God?
I feel so horridly useless, alone, and, quiet honestly, tarnished and ruined. You can scrub the oxidation off silver, and you can cut a raw stone into a priceless gem, but what can you do with a piece of broken pottery except scrape your open wounds like Job did. Tonight my heart's cry is that of Paul, for he said I do the things I do not wish to do, and the things I want to do I do not do. Why does it always have to be this way? I'm so tired of failing, of not quite living up to who I want--and who I should be.
I'm just so tired. Tired of trying.

Raw

I wish that I could just go back to who I was before.
I hate the feeling of being watched--of having others see me. I just want to slink away, hide in a corner, and be angry--all the time.

No One Knocking

Am I really back to a valley already? I shouldn't be surprised at this--I do know better, I really do. Loneliness. That ever-present feeling of wishing to let someone into the room of your heart, and yet there is no one there knocking at the door wanting to enter. I don't know what to do. I can't force anyone to care like that, but yet I crave to show someone a glimpse of my crumbled, crying form. But would an action born of that be merely pity? So after weighing my options I shall do what I always do: write, pray, and wait. Some people eat their feelings in an attempt to feel better, but I just write mine. I spill them out like ugly blots of ink upon a white sheet of paper, and then I wait. Other moments I just simply shove this loneliness to the back of my mind and go about my business like I never had the feeling.
Is it such a crime to want?