I find myself wanting to comfort people. Billy, Corrina, people who bleed their anguish into words that I can comprehend. Words is my medium. I can react, I can respond, I can offer turns of phrase and well-smithed words that might make a difference.
The only real problem is that I know it doesn't make a difference. I'm just bleeding into the same barrel so that it's no longer type A or type O but a jumble of all our suppurated anguish ready for the paint shaker.
People don't really comfort one another in my experience. You hear the words, you value the offer of understanding for what that's worth as great or as little as you permit such things to impinge on you. It's no actual comfort, though. It's no help.
Why do I want to muddle about in others' troubles? The desire of mankind to wallow in the black bile of emotion amazes me. I disgust myself when I find it in me. I've got plenty of problems of my own.