Confused Jumble

Life is filled with tragedies too comfortable to cry about and comedies too miserable to laugh about. And yet, we still spend our lives crying and laughing over our epic tale of sleeping and waking and existing, or - what's that word? - living. Because it's not the tragedies that make us cry, it's the weariness of so many small disappointments. And we don't live in a world filled with comedians to make us laugh, but instead our humour is found in a stupid thought we have which we're too embarrassed to admit to. And mixed in amongst all these half-feelings of joy or sadness or both is the endless list of emotions that words only make seem more important than they really are. So that we spend hours of our life feeling intense ambivalence with a twinge of regret, served with a selection of fear and hope and shame. And then hours more with a different platter of confusions. And somehow these feelings don't seem worthy of our time, because we believe our time should be spent feeling utter despair in its purest form, or uncontaminated ecstasy, or whatever else - the important thing is that it should be an emotion which is significant enough to write poetry or paint about, not just a confused jumble of sensations. Because this confused jumble isn't pretty or symmetrical. The notes don't form chords. And it's annoying that we have to spend our time in this wonky weird world. Or maybe we just have to accept the beauty of crying whilst clutching at our sides with laughter, or of our hands shaking with fear and our toes curling in embarrassment - all at an insignificant part of our day that no-one cares about. Because even if the tune's alternative in the extreme and the painting's so abstract it looks like a child's rage-filled crayon explosion, beauty's in the eye of the beholder, and since it's our life we're beholding, we'd better start seeing it as beautiful.