Making sense

Sitting here trying to make sense of it all before dashing out of the door for a train, when it occurred that this may be the problem. Isn’t the world just a mess of organic growth and decay that only a fool would claim to understand?

We can work out just enough to get by: to send people to the moon and bring them back; to make a boat that floats; a plane that flies; to open another human being up, put them back together again and make them stand up and behave pretty much as before.  But that isn’t all of it by a long-shot.

And I am about to spend two hours trying to convince a room filled with a small part of the world that I can be trusted to make sense of the bit of this mess we are playing around with.  Often people comfort themselves with the words “It’s just a game” or “It’s all a means to an end”. Who can blame them?

I’ve just been playing a guitar piece that I've neglected for months.  It suddenly occurred to me what a sad piece of music it is.  Someone, somewhere understands how that works – can make it happen on a whim.  To me it’s just a mystery – an emotion.

Each morning I try to hold onto a world that existed only while I slept.  Somewhere, those events hold the key to how I feel each morning.  The me that drops breakfast crumbs on my laptop knows only the smallest fragment of that existence, yet it is very much my own.

Hmmmm.  There I go again... Off to the train I go.