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It’s been a long day.
What started out to be a day that felt like ‘maybe it won’t be such a bad Monday after all’, turned out to be a day where all I wanted to do was bury my head under mounts of soft pillows and wish the world away.
But, how easy would it really be if we could really wish the world away with a blink of an eyelid; or, in my case, with the sudden drop of the first of what would turn out to be hundreds of tears.
It’s a peculiar thing, crying. It’s a verb. But, it’s more like a feeling. Why do we cry? And what if we didn’t cry?
What if we woke up one morning to realise that all our tear glands had dried up because we used up all our share of tears? What would the human condition amount to then? Would we still feel so miserable? Wouldn’t it make us stronger to know that no matter what happens, we cannot cry. It almost seems like one would be unbreakable. But, I don’t think that’s true.
I think we’d break away into little countless pieces that no one could put back together. We’d be wrecks, all of us. We’d go mad with all the information, injustice and hurt that our souls endure without being able to bring it out in the form of those silent little crystal beads that come trickling down our cheeks.
I’m not saying I like crying. It feels tragic and something that I don’t want to do so badly it’s uncontrollable – both the desire to stop crying and the crying, itself. I don’t expect you to understand half of what I’m saying; these are really the random thoughts that are pouring themselves out after I have had an outburst – the result of a long overdue breakdown. It happens. One can’t control it. I have tried. In fact, I have come to a point where I have tried much more mature ways to calm myself down while knowing that by the end of it all, I will be crying – either silently and slowly till I dropped off into a deep slumber of rushed and hurried dreams; or noisily, sobbing into my pillow or my hands, depending on how helpless or alone I feel.
Crying is actually therapeutic – not something I like doing. But, now and then, it’s what we all find our selves doing because it’s the only outlet to anything. Yes, crying is an involuntarily therapeutic act. We don’t want to do it because we like to pretend that we’re stronger than that. We like to believe that tears can’t wear us down. We like to feel like we’re above the childish act of crying. We’re ‘mature’ adults.
But, who’s to say what’s mature? And no one ever made a law that stated that those who cry are innocent and unaware of the tragedy that is the world. I believe that the maturity lies in accepting that, at the end of it all, I’m only human; there’s only so much I can do. And even though I won’t cry in front of a thousand eyes watching me (I won’t even cry in front of the eyes of a loved one), I will cry in the confines of my room. I will cry in solitude, I will cry in the dark and I will also cry in the rain, or in the shower, or while I cut the onions. But I will cry when I’m alone. Because in that moment, in that quiet of loneliness, I can feel the sadness crash and burn; ebb and flow out of me. I can almost hear the tears spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks and in that moment, I ask myself, “How am I doing this? How have I done this? How will I go on to do this?” In that moment, I accept and acknowledge that I am, but human and I have come to the point of no return. So, I cry.
I cry because no matter how much we shield ourselves and no matter how many walls we build around us, occasionally, someone is always going to be able to tear those walls and bring our guard down. It’s the basic rule of living and breathing and feeling – emotions, things, pain. I cry because I realise that in that moment, that is the highest point that I have climbed and the lowest pit I have fallen into. And be it high or low, there is no one to fall with you, climb with you or join you. It’s you and only you; no matter what you do, where you go or how hard you try to hide.
I cry in wonder of what I have come to be; of what I have accomplished, all by myself when it was something I never imagined me doing. I cry because I’m surprised at my own strengths. I cry because I wish I didn’t have those strengths. You see, I believe that we only face that which we can endure. So maybe if I didn’t have those strengths, I wouldn’t have to endure. The tears might have been less then. Might have.
I cry in anger because I know no other way to show it. It’s easy when you have a temper that is short and when you find it fairly simple to blast off in someone else’s face without having to feel bad about the hurt you might have caused them. How much more simple would it be to just be selfish at least once in a while. I cry because I am selfless and I can’t be anything but that. I cry because I am patient to the point where one is often taken for granted. People tend to forget that the other person, whom they ask to endure troubles that are not meant for them, yet, are also human and are, therefore, subject to falter.
People forget. I cry because people forget. I cry for memories that have been lost in another’s mind. I cry for the memories that remain in mine. Why didn’t I lose the memories too? Wouldn’t it be easier to simply forget? Then one wouldn’t have to remember. And if you don’t remember something, it can’t haunt you. I cry for the things that could have been but were not because someone else realised they wanted a different thing that could be. I always hope that the people who go after what they feel could be, always get what they want. Why? Because I know stories of losing and not finding. I know stories of wanting and not having.
I cry for the stories that will remain untold and will be buried six feet under in some future, without being said out loud only because there was no one to listen or because one might have been afraid that no one wold listen, anyway. I cry for the dead. Not at the burials and memorials, I don’t. But I cry in the dark of the night for the souls who are wandering and trying to be heard by all those who are too lost in weeping over the memories that were and won’t be.
I cry for life – both young and old. I cry for the infant who is barely a second old in this wide world. How much of life do they have ahead of them, wishing them a life of innocent laughs that may live on forever. I cry for the unborn – there are always so many hopes, dreams and aspirations that are attached to those who are unborn, unseen and unheard.
I cry for the things that have not been; and for the things that exist in a parallel universe because we know not what we gained or lost and that we will never know.
Simply put, I cry. I cry for everything and nothing. I cry for happiness and sadness; for the known and the unknown and for the scars that are so deep they cannot be seen. I cry because that’s who I am – a girl who feels more deeply and strongly than most humans do. Alas, I shouldn’t because the more you feel, the more alert you are to the emotions around you. But how can I help the way I was made. May be I was created to cry for those who have no one o cry for them. Maybe I was born to belong to the world and all its unheard mercies.
So, I cry and it’s nothing I am ashamed of because it makes me stronger than I was before the tears came down and yet, it makes me vulnerable in my own solitude. I cry because I know I’m human and tender and fragile. But, I also cry because in that tenderness and vulnerability, my spirit remains unbreakable. I cry because in this maturity, I am still that child who was brought into this world, crying.

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