Life is Weird. People are Strange. Sing, anyway.
Sometimes, things just don’t make sense. I’m not an everything-is-black-and-white person – so I get that. Things aren’t only good and bad, right or wrong, easy or hard. Life can be 47 different levels of weird and crazy, like the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland, but dipped in crack.
I like things to make sense. Or, at least, to be somewhat understandable. Because even if I don’t LIKE something, I handle it much better if there’s a clear picture. I think most people do.
But today, my heart hurts a little bit for all the things I just cannot wrap my head around. I have to remind myself that people aren’t math equations, which is a good thing (because math and I don’t get along). People are more like short stories: open to interpretation, with meaning to be found in snatches. Except, unlike a short story, people don’t have to make sense. There’s no set structure. There’s no rules. Basically, it’s we’re a human case study in Faulkner, circa The Sound and the Fury (ie the book that made my soul bleed and nearly stop reading FOREVER).
I always want to understand things. That is both good and bad. You cannot drag meaning from silence, any more than one can coax blood from a rock. And yet…that doesn’t always stop us from trying, does it?
Lately, I am in no mood for uncertainty. I am not entirely myself. I’m not as strong as I feel I should be, but I’m trying my best not to show it. I am like a cat in that respect: when wounded or hurting, I hide. Very few people see me otherwise. It isn’t always deliberate. It’s just another kind of armor, I suppose. But to the point: I am still the brave idiot most people are familiar with. Even now. I don’t think that personal pain is an excuse for radical personality changes, though I can see how it could affect people that way.
One thing I know is this: life is too damn short. It’s too damn short to be scared or to hold back. It’s too short to be dishonest or less than forthcoming. It’s too short not to love and laugh. It’s too short not to ask questions, reach out, or dance. It’s too short not to sing every chance we get. It’s too short not to be a little crazy and ridiculous. It’s too short not to try.
That’s the crux, the difference between being held by fear and moving beyond it: trying. Goodness knows, come hell, high water, or complete insanity – I never let that stop me. Don’t let it stop you, either. Because most of the time, the things we strive for, the brass rings and bright things, are exactly what we need. We just have to dare to believe it.