I *so* understand. It is just *painful*. I pass along a poem written by my grandmother's best friend. I wish I could say I'd written it. I have had this hanging over my desk for some time.

Why must I sing this song
who cannot sing?
Why must the spirit soar
that has no wing?
Why must the clod feel fire?
Who portions out desire?
Who hears the perfect chord
played on the faulty lyre?

...

Of course what strange_selkie says is true too, and I have had my share of the white phosphorus, but I still do know.