In this quiet moment, a Sunday evening in the breakroom of the local community blood center, one ponders the tragicomedy we call a society, where the perception of one’s place as a temporary confluence of sets of states of energy is like a morning fog, a label for congregated globulets of hydrogen and oxygen atoms naturally attracted to one another, a density of visual impairment we may describe in tones of romance (two lovers walk hand-in-hang along the fog-enshrouded Seine), suspense (the detective lost track of the murder suspect in the pea soup floating over London), mysticism (the Buddha manifestation flowed down the Indus Valley with the warmth of lotus petals)…
Thus, it is so, the tragic is the comic and the comic the ridicule.
Sacrosanct, sacred…what do such labels provide both the dedicated neliever and a skeptical nonbeliever?
Who, amongst us, defines sanity?
What, then, is normality?
Can a multicultural society support the most life-supporting meanings in the phrase “live and let live”?
In this meditation upon semantics, which is itself a microcosm of the Cosmic Comedy, one asks oneself, “Why, when I and others find ourselves in the depth of tragedy, do I create in my thought patterns the most socially insensitive jokes dedicated to the Muse of Pathos?”
Where is the balance between satirical humour and sympathetic murmurs?