Unhappiness

There are few people, a certain kind - a small minority, hopefully - that are just plain unhappy people. As opposed to another at the opposite end of the spectrum, the people who are always happy, find something to cheer, and smile to sleep more often than not. The unhappy people, on the other hand, are doomed to forever search for the dark cloud above the silver lining, doomed to find something to cry to sleep about every night. They are suckers for grief, so much that even others' grief easily flows through and resonates in them. They are good shoulders to cry on, because they're always looking for shoulders.

Nothing is ever enough, ever all right. Happiness by definition is transient for them, a treasured impulse which possibly can't last more than a few nanoseconds, an impulse they are doomed to run after and try too hard to keep. They survive on being bitter, on self-pity, on guilt. The drama is good. They think. They feel. They suspect. They whine. And they repel happiness, the same thing they run after, because they do not understand its true nature.

They're dangerous, because they contaminate every aura they intercept. They just carry the negative energy around, until the day they have dissolved themselves in their own worthless tears, until the day their personal seething fires have burnt them.
They're attractive, like Danger itself.
Thank God not all people are like them. But what is saddest is, they're who they are, to a large extent because of their own choice. Such a waste.