The funny thing is the last thing people think of the real me as (as opposed to the virtual me) is “despondently reflective”. I am famous (or infamous) amongst my cronies for my wicked sense of humor, a sharp wit and a sharper, scathing tongue (oh, how modest I am!). So, the poetries I churn out, that flow within moments from my being to my brain through my fingers out in to the world bewilder them. Is that anguish for real, does she hold so much inside, without saying it aloud, even while she’s laughing with the world?
Difficult question. To ask. And to answer.
Aren’t the funny people in the world those, who have pain hidden and resonating in the depths of their soul? I am not very funny by long measure but I do know how to make people laugh. Don’t we all laugh, so that no one will ever notice our tears?
But a friend, one I have come to love over a period of time, asked me this. And I had to step back and think. Why, why was it so simple to create verses that others found beautiful but always symbolic of an aching heart when they thought of the one who was writing it? I owed my friend an answer as she was the one who asked about not when I wrote it, or how I wrote it but why I write it.
And all I could think was, that I wasn’t any different or any better or worse than anyone around us. Everyone has desperation and pain within them. We learn to live with it. It is always there, bubbling away in the depth. Some days you smart with the throbbing awareness of it, and some days you don’t even realize that it is still alive within you. But sometimes when it spills over, and tends to overcome you- threatening to herald to the world the torment that you survive with, threatening to expose you to that unwanted and ugly pity- that we recede back into our shells. And, each in our own unique way, we deal with it away from the prying and questioning eyes of the world before we bounce back on to the stage, rejuvenated, refueled to take on the world with renewed vigor.
For me, I write. And sometimes, I write funny too. But the pensive sadness is too easy, too tempting and so difficult to resist.