The speaker starts out almost dismissive. Talk of love, loss, joy, sorrow and the fear of death is, he suggests, the kind of thing we indulge in on a lonely afternoon or a late night when there's nothing else to do. The word "regurgitate" is blunt and a bit unpleasant: these aren't fresh feelings but stale memories, chewed over and brought up again.
Then the tone shifts. The pointlessness of all this brooding suddenly "hits one like a blast of cold air." The poem moves from casual, almost bored reflection to a sharp physical shiver. The closing image of a "blizzard of loneliness" shrouding the self suggests that the real discovery isn't any particular memory but how isolated the speaker is. The mood is bleak, chilly and quietly unsettling. The poem seems to say that going over old emotions doesn't comfort us; it only leaves us more alone.