Water drops

It is Saturday night in Gorgie. And everywhere else in Britain. The headache that has plagued me all day does not seem to want to loosen it's grip. I feel ick. And I can't write. My spirit feels no inspiration, and this troubles me.
Creatively, I feel nothing.
This morning I stayed in bed and watched watched Water, a beautifully shot film about the suffering of widows in India in the 1930s. I bawled at the end because it just didn't seem there would ever be an end to the torment of these women. The notation as the film closed didn't help - that there are still millions of widows in India who are condemned to lives of loneliness and oppression, their poverty levered by social tradition and a 2,000 year-old religious text.
Perhaps I should have watched something more uplifting because since Water I have been carrying the languishing feeling that there is nothing to be done about injustice in the world. I need to spend some time with someone who possesses an unshakable belief in the inevitable triumph of the human spirit over selfishness and cruelty, over the ego. Anyone know someone like that?
I feel like the only power I have to affect the world is through writing, so when the well feels dry, I question my purpose.
Do we have a purpose? What is enough? I struggle with guilt for being so privileged, living as I do in a society where women have the right to choose their partners, to divorce, to live alone, to choose their friends and work. At this very moment I have 20 candles burning and there is food in my fridge. I wish I could shake the feelings of guilt and wear instead layers of thankfulness and celebration.
I do feel better when I even just try to write. That is something, I suppose.