We are tragic, because we love. Tragic? We are beings that frown on tragedies, but secretly bleed savoring it’s bitter sweetness. Though we dislike tragedies in our own lives. A death in the family. Getting fired from a job. A doctor’s diagnosis. An accident. Infidelity. When we were defrauded. The list goes on and on. We associate tragedies with loss. Why does it move us so? We empathize on other people’s tragedies. We cannot help to look away when we see one unfolding before our very eyes. We look into our lives, with bookmarks on events we deemed tragic. Although we mark events that are remarkable and special and some even miraculous, we cannot help but count only the tragic events. Luminaries on the field of science emphasize the triumphs of our species. Writers, poets, the media, Hollywood, and yes, even Bollywood, thrive on tragedies.
I’m not an expert, I’m just like you, as they say.."We’re on the same boat.." I’m a father of three, a husband and a friend. All my life, I have always considered myself to be a poet. A poet with no words. A dreamer, a dreaming poet! For a long time, I have struggle with my words. The computer keyboard keys are worn, but of all the keys, none of them are smoother or shinier than my backspace and delete keys. Isn’t that just tragic? I have thoroughly enjoyed other people’s words, their songs, their stories, and I even enjoy their lies. My life is like any other life, I blend well and I am wretched for it. I’m a poet with no words, I suffer for my words. I have for a long time struggled to reign the wild horses in my mind. Put into words the color of my joys. Compose the song of my life. Paint into canvass the wretchedness and flood it with my misery. If I were to try stone sculpting, it would be a heap of Piccasso pieces of rubble. My teacher would cry and breakdown for the love of his art. Isn’t that tragic? I am tragic, have always been. My cup is filled, and must let flow, no matter how twisted or demented. When I chatted with an old friend. I mentioned to him about the wild horses. He told me I should be a cowboy to tame them. I forgot to tell him about the crap the wild horses leave. So I thought, I should be a cowboy and a good shit handler at the same time. And out of the blue, I begin to think about the riches of this world and how none of it is mine. And how I was not moved to rupture when my children were born. This world is many things. How could I have even thought of bringing them here? They’re such angels, so pure, so delightful. I can only think what this world will do to them. "Angels get their wings clipped here". I thought, it is tragic! I feel a profound sadness, realizing what I have done, because angels belong in heaven. Though I revel in the miseries of this world, surviving one way or another, This world is not for them. “There’s a hole in the sky!… for Christ sake!” I’d rather be the one who burns when the sun reaches in and scorch the earth.
Tragedy I classify into three,..garden-variety melancholy, damning kind, and my favorite, the loving type. I’m sure you out there have your own label. Then, to each his own! Of the three I only possess two kinds, and the damning one is not it. But in love, I am damned. Damned for an endless string of eternities.
