Little Mysteries About Nothing
When I begin there is this moment of confusion. It’s like wonder, but less wondering; the mysterious without any mystery. Maybe it’s like a tingle if someone told you what a tingle felt like without ever having felt one yourself. Things are about to move forward, life is about to take a step, then bam! I have no idea what to say about any of it.
I guess that’s all natural. It doesn’t make it any less disconcerting, though. How is that such a common feeling? Why are we all so comfortable and accepting of things being so universally unintelligible. Why doesn’t it bother me that I can still be totally confused at nothing.
It’s something about us, I think. We’re all talk about how we struggle against the unknown. Our curiosity drives us all toward some make believe higher whatever– but does it really? Do we really? I think we love the unknown. I think we crave it.
Maybe I just feel the need to project some of that mystery where there isn’t any. Maybe it’s the shock of things being too simple. Maybe I’m just tired and I should stop ranting about nothing. Maybe I should go pick up the phone.