Modernist Writers and Discontentment

Recently, that feeling of contentment and peace with my routine has been replaced with pure frustration and anger and feeling distant and withdrawn. When I feel happy, it is only momentary and then reality sets back in. My english teacher was lecturing about modernist writers and how some of them were so aware of their own mind and their internal conflict that the external world seemed so distant and unobtainable until their minds had caused them such grief and insecurity that they were faced with immense inaction. He connected this inaction to poems like the lovesong of j alfred prufrock and the hollow men, etc. to eliot's inability to connect on an emotional level with other people, specifically with a love interest. 

Perhaps the problem lies within my own extreme self-awareness. Maybe I have a tendency to over-analyze things. It is possible that I consider situations for such a prolonged period of time that they are eventually given a new meaning and I come to find fault where there is none. Although, it is just as possible that the fault I find has always been there but I had previously been blinded by a romanticized notion of arcadia within love. 

The other night I suddenly paused for a moment and thought "how are people so young and inexperienced supposed to make this work at all?" and it caused me to reevaluate my motives. Perhaps this is meant to be taken impulsively. Maybe we were never supposed to think about it, just feel it. But that's impossible. Human emotion and thought process are so complex, it's a struggle to consider it all in such depth. I just... I have nothing more to say that wouldn't end up in a vicious cycle of my own inner conflict. I just would like for him to hear me.