«Sadness is easier because its surrender.»
I am happy. It’s hard to admit. It feels like tempting fate. It holds no place to hide. It is, however, the truth. Life is not perfect, not even close. Colours aren't brighter, tastes aren't stronger. I didn't wake up one day with all my problems solved and all my troubles soothed. Nonetheless, I will repeat myself. I am happy. I feel younger everyday, regressing from the age of 60. I see beyond the bad. I acknowledge, appreciate, and am grateful for the good. The good that was always there, trapped underneath the full weight of my guilt. I ignore the unpleasant, enjoy the unexpected. I am patient. I listen. I learn.
But happy endings don't sell as well as tragedy (of Elizabethan proportions). So I thought about it a while. My words felt shallow, even empty. My mind, my heart, are not. Tragedy, it turns out, need not be a Greek masterpiece. I have never aspired to such greatness. I have my own tragedy, tragedies, in varying degrees. I can, I must, profess them without falling to that pit of sorrow. Pain is immortal yet it reminds me that I am alive. I shall call them, instead, misfortunes. Remove the element of disaster. One becomes fond of one's misfortunes - like holding a grudge. We nurture them, analyse, obsess, provoke. Amidst all the frustration I sometimes forget how it first came to be. Some could, perhaps, have been prevented. Others, I wouldn't dare. It is the Shakespearian way. That the end comes with tears is not to say it wasn’t worth the beginning. It may even add a certain charm. The romanticism I crave. Excess sentimentality keeps my innate stoicism at bay. Poetry and prose fill the lack of beauty I feel. My lips don’t say enough. My voice speaks only silence. The need to confess is stronger. Becomes a gesture of hand, an equivocal look, shaking knees – oblivious to the unsuspecting, blatant to the searching. Music has always been the most eloquent communicator. I don’t have to explain how you make me feel, I can show you. Here:
The Nutcracker (Tchaikovsky) - Pas de Deux, Intrada.
But happy endings don't sell as well as tragedy (of Elizabethan proportions). So I thought about it a while. My words felt shallow, even empty. My mind, my heart, are not. Tragedy, it turns out, need not be a Greek masterpiece. I have never aspired to such greatness. I have my own tragedy, tragedies, in varying degrees. I can, I must, profess them without falling to that pit of sorrow. Pain is immortal yet it reminds me that I am alive. I shall call them, instead, misfortunes. Remove the element of disaster. One becomes fond of one's misfortunes - like holding a grudge. We nurture them, analyse, obsess, provoke. Amidst all the frustration I sometimes forget how it first came to be. Some could, perhaps, have been prevented. Others, I wouldn't dare. It is the Shakespearian way. That the end comes with tears is not to say it wasn’t worth the beginning. It may even add a certain charm. The romanticism I crave. Excess sentimentality keeps my innate stoicism at bay. Poetry and prose fill the lack of beauty I feel. My lips don’t say enough. My voice speaks only silence. The need to confess is stronger. Becomes a gesture of hand, an equivocal look, shaking knees – oblivious to the unsuspecting, blatant to the searching. Music has always been the most eloquent communicator. I don’t have to explain how you make me feel, I can show you. Here:
The Nutcracker (Tchaikovsky) - Pas de Deux, Intrada.
posted by tin tin at 9:04 AM
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