It's that feeling of wanting to fix it and knowing I can't--of needing to say the words that will drown out misery's ostinati and providing only a tacet stare. 

There are things that transcend my ability and outweigh my desires. No matter how much effort I apply, there are pitches I can't match, tones I can't hear, rhythms I can't learn. Malevolence? Surely not, no. Mere metaphysical fact and meta-metaphysical realization. I didn't say that the pitches qua pitches couldn't be matched, but that I, in the mold of myself, could not reach them--tones and rhythms the same. 

All of it is attainable, though--the fame/fortune/feast, the alchemist's fire that transmutes despair to elation, the composer's pen from which ink spills forth and dots staves with liquid fulfillment. 

I want nothing more than to fix it and know nothing more certain than the fact that I can't. It's your libretto to score, your melodies to harmonize. I'm here to listen, quite literally, and to provide feedback when appropriate and when you ask and when you don't ask and when it's inappropriate and when I have none to provide and when you hate me for it and when you love me for it and when, upon hearing it, you cry or smile or dance and when it's followed my moments of silence or decades of laughter. 

Ultimately, though, you are the maestro. It's your concerto to write and perform, your universe to create.