Feasting in a World of Famine

For some reason I have Insomnia. It literally stinks, and I thought it was a side effect of one or a combination of the medicine I have to take, but I fear it is more than that. I am usually a pretty intense thinker and these sleepless nights have done nothing to relieve me of this burden. In fact, they have exacerbated it. There is nothing in my life worth complaining about. I have food, water, shelter, clothes, a job, a car, money to pay my bills, and a family who loves me. Yet simultaneously, and not without hypocrisy, my life feels very void of the things I love. I spend 8 hours a day working at a job in a field I could care less about. I work extra jobs late into the night to make ends meet. I have been back in America a little over 2 years now, and in Columbia for about 18 months, and I still don’t feel like I have a niche yet. I feel like most of the things I do are very much indicative of the life of some else…like I am doing them to feel like a part of something, but all I usually feel like is an impostor. I guess after living abroad for nearly 3 years straight out of college, I thought when I got home, I would have people to live life with again. There were and are thousands of things I’d love to do, but honestly, I am tired of doing things alone. So in lieu of loneliness I just started joining everyone else in doing the things in their lives instead of making a life for myself. I have sacrificed my gifts, passions, and self-expression for community or more accurately, what I thought the absence of loneliness would be, and now I am afraid I can’t sleep.
Ever since as long as I remember I have felt like something inside of me is pleading to be released, to be expressed. I wonder if this feeling, or something like it, is what prodded daVinci to paint or Bach to compose. A man to pursue a woman. A mother to kiss her sleeping child. I have always yearned to be able to communicate this feeling in such a gigantically fabulous form of self-expression such as these, to actively be giving to the world what I have been given to give to it.
There was one very bright star that I could see out my bedroom window when I went to bed as a child. I named it after the boy of my childhood dreams. At nine years old I would sit up in my bed, feeling this feeling and studying this star. I have been in relationships since then and it is close, that feeling that you get, but it is only part of the feeling I am referring to. Being a parent is another, I suppose. Building a house. Writing a book. Sailing. Winning the Nobel Prize. But these moments of inspiration have endings, sometimes sad ones. They are only part of the story. What I am feeling is so much more.
I am constantly perplexed at the suffering of the world. Poverty. Abuse. Neglect. Hunger. Disease. Homelessness. A prayer of repentance puts it this way: "We have not done that which we ought to have done, and there is no good in us." Proverbs exhorts, "Don’t withhold good from those that deserve it." Jesus says, "What you did to the least of these you did to me."
This dilemma recurs periodically, for me, and I think about David, "a man after God’s own heart," who built himself the most elaborate house the world had seen to that point, despite the lepers and cripples and widows and orphans inhabiting the same world he did. Good King Wenceslas didn’t stop feasting when he saw the poor man outside in the snow. He invited him in. I spent three dollars on a cup of coffee today and it was good in the Genesis 1 sense. However, I could have literally saved someone’s life with those three dollars. To write that sentence makes me want to die. I have no idea how to reconcile this tension. Because steak and beer, roller coasters, clothes, vacations, cabins at the lake, surfing trips--these are terribly wonderful things. Could someone please tell me how to feast in a world of famine…?