My life is a Waste Land?

So, here I am again, posting because I have to. I fancy myself a writer but find it difficult to write without a gun to my head. Lately, I've been having trouble assimilating all the bits and pieces of my life into a coherent whole. And now, here we are, the first reading of the semester (yes, I'm beginning work on the semester at the incorrect end of said semester): Eliot's "The Waste Land." Is there another piece of literature out there that takes so many disjointed pieces of life and puts them together in this way? Perhaps something by Pynchon, but with him you get a nod and a wink, the feeling of an inside joke. "The Waste Land" is serious as can be. For something that seems so hard to understand, I understood it all too well. The joys and pains, laughter and - okay let's just stop that cliche right there. All the disparate bits of life that don't seem to connect in any possible way, connect in one very important way - through the person who experiences them. The trouble comes when we try blend these bits and make sense of all those unrelated pieces: death, driving, school, the check-out line, conversations with friends we don't really like all that much, puddles, late-night television, pine trees, macaroni, war, puppies, literature . . . I think you get the point. How do all of these things gel into a complete, coherent life experience. It can be rather overwhelming.