My Disbelief With Myself

I can't believe that at my age, I still have issues with existentialism. I hate myself sometimes. Had i been less convinced that I'm here for a purpose, I'd probably be happier with life. I crave to change things around me, to fight for a cause, to devote myself to a life of giving, yet i can't quite decide if this is just hypocrisy at work. Maybe it is. But I know of many people who don't even harbour such thoughts at all. Surely this means something?! I'm not sure.
Many artistes are tormented souls and people who ain't any near experiencing that could only wonder why people can sink into depression at times, or are plagued by bouts of melancholia. Yet, these people are those who probably have experienced the whole range and depth of emotions to be able to write fabulously. To compose earth-shattering music. To reduce men to tears. Why are some people more emotional than others? The fault of the environment or just a coindental creation of nature? I am hardly an artiste, but I can empathise with how sometimes, maybe it is not about who you hang out with, how you desperately try to keep a positive outlook. Things just are.
No buts. No ifs.
Sometimes i wonder if i can be born with a less complicated mind. Simplicity is bliss.
Complexity hardly matches up.
I crave.
The craving...relentless...unrepentent...