People are difficult. Things are difficult. We are all so complicated, and so different, in some ways, that sometimes I wonder how we get along at all. How can people be friends? How do we relate to each other, and communicate, and actually have connections with other people whose depths you can't even begin to plumb?
What we put out there of ourselves is so little, so insignificant, and so, so inadequate. We have all these big things inside us and all we have to represent them are piddly little words, silly nothings that we use to try and give out some sense of the bigness of the things we are feeling. It sucks. Language is beautiful and powerful, and better than nothing, but still so insufficient for expression.
Which is why we resort to other things. We have to find outlets for all of the pent up things that we just don't have the tools to convey. We're constantly trying to find a release, another way to say what we have to say, and it's a constant search and struggle to get it all out so we can be at some sort of peace. We're all bound and gagged. The people who don't find their outlet are in big trouble.
I'm sitting on the concrete outside Warren lecture hall and the leaves are turning red. I'm wearing a cashmere sweater. It's cloudy and chilly. Where am I again? For a second I'm fooled.
These days I understand sad smiles, and the frequent coincidence of things being sad and amusing, or amusing because they are so sad. I never thought I'd understand that twisted, tragic sort of humor, but I do. Lately I've asked "I don't know if that's really funny, or really sad" more than I ever have before.
Life is sort of tragically beautiful in all its sadness. The important thing is to have a comfort in this mess, a cup of hot cocoa in the winter, your outlet. I have mine, and I'm grateful. I'm glad I have a cashmere sweater I can wear when the leaves turn, when it gets cold.
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