This is not about anyone in particular, but is meant to portray a common theme of life.
He told me the story of what is happening in his life, and here I feel an emptiness in my stomach. I am no longer with him, but I am the only one here, solitary in my room, curled on the floor, wielding a wrath and grief against the Evil One who did this and the Divine One who allowed it. His words brought me some unspeakable anguish that raises a mountainous cry that can never be heard by men. It twists my soul into unretractable knots, surges of anger and pain and confusion and hatred and tormented helplessness and blazing hopelessness. My heart does not ache metaphorically. A passion rears large, then is turned to passionate defeat by the thought, “This passion can do nothing, and is felt in vain.” A tremendous, unconquerable spurning in my side to change the past, to pummel the evil thing that has happened until it is dead and then keep beating it over and over until my rage has passed in twenty lifetimes, and knowing I can’t do that and it will happen to millions of others until the End.
