Soul-ed out

I'm a story teller without stories to tell.

...

I'll read about how people have drowned in an ocean and then think about how the closest I've come to that was getting rained on.

All my troubles fit neatly in a sack and sometimes I get to leave that sack behind; it will show up later but for a time, at least, it was gone from me.

Other people's troubles are a constant burden; every reach, every step is hindered by scars and still open wounds. Often, they will hide their hurt but sometimes I'll watch them cringe when a movement that was made too quickly will cause them their all too familiar pain. I'll wish that I had a cure but sometimes there are no cures.

I know I don't know the half if it.

I feel like an ineffectual fool.

I am inadequate.

...

She seemed to be lost for a moment in the telling of her tale. I wondered if she forgot I was still there, until she looked toward me but not directly at me. I watched her eyes for a glimmer of exposed soul but she never looked up as she said "Don't worry. I know there is nothing you can do."