why?

If my life were a book, then all its pages would be black.
Of this purposeless existence, and just that, I am tired.
With my bounded horizon, I am about to suffocate.
Of pain, and the lack of a reason for it;
Of aimlessness and the dearth of any achievement;
I am in ruins.

Of un-called-for rains and suppressed tears
Of remorse,
And the lack of love and the feel of being loved
Of betrayal and things unsaid
And with none to hold a hand or to listen
I am running into chaos.

This is not a passing phase,
I know
Nor is this a shade of youth
Rather it’s me-
The person I am.
Why?