29 January 2015

I've read that the composition of tears varies from situation to situation--these tears of sadness are not made of the same stuff as the tears cried when I dice an onion for my spaghetti lunch. Under the microscope, zoomed in a thousand times, grief is biologically made of ingredients to help relieve stress and numb the pain. So I cry, hoping to feel better and waiting for better to come.

By this time, I have cried so much that I thought I'd be completely depleted of water. I imagine myself, withered away like a once delicate bouquet of flowers that now hangs upside down from the ceiling. I've cried on my pillows, I've cried on my carpet, I've cried in my car, I've cried in cafes. But the body is such an amazing thing; regardless of how parched my mouth and throat may grow, I always manage to cry and cry and cry. From somewhere, the tears gather and flood my eyes. The sadness always manages to seep out.