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Tears and old friends
Feb. 12th, 2009 12:45 amI never do cry in front of just anyone. In fact, not including the scraped knees of childhood or precocious tantrums, I can count in both of the fingers of my hand the time I have really, truly cried. It was never about not feeling anything…I more than anyone I know feel things for what they are and what they are sometimes not. Safe to say, I feel a lot. And perhaps it is just in my personality to end up writing about it rather than crying. But when I cry, it truly means my heart is broken, it means that something happened that my soul or spirit cannot make sense of.
What is in a tear? When my tears fall, they flow abundantly, like an eternal river whose flow cannot be stopped. Tears are an exercise of elocution, yet I find myself helpless; I am completely wrapped up in the moment and at the mercy of that salty sadness. I have shed tears over a broken heart, he was someone whom I treasured profusely and without question, who ended up hurting me. I cried over precious people that I have lost, to death, and to other unimaginably worse things. (Yes, worse than death.) Those kinds of tears are exhausting because you know that those tears are only that, tears. Some say crying heals the wounds, but sometimes crying is just crying. You’re just simply speechless at the pain you’re experiencing, and the heart talks through the tears. Sometimes it’s all you can do. Tears, well, tear you apart. It just renders you completely open to the world: you are hurting, and everyone can plainly see. If that's a good thing or not, I'm not wise enough to know. But I admire those who can freely cry, unashamed of their pain. Except for those times when it is simply out of my control, I cannot bring myself to be that open. Maybe I’m cowardly like that.
And because of my reluctance to be so open, there are just so many things and people that come by meaninglessly. It makes me sad to realize that people are able to live without touching each other. I'm guilty of that charge. That's why, with all the people out there that you can meet, you just can't continue passing them by. As I grow older, this sentiment gets stronger and stronger.
Most of the time, I still feel pretty confused. I’m on my stomach right now, listening to an old record of Radiohead, there is a tingle in my toes that I can’t seem to just shake out. I think that one of the best things about being human is the ability to be self-aware—aware, in that space of one specific moment, of all the tiny emotions that in the long run will be forgotten in the accumulated highs and tragedies of our lives. Emotions that don’t normally don’t merit an entry in our diaries (or blogs), but carry more weight that we give it credit for. I think these are feelings that I strive the most to write about because I would probably forget about them the next day; and the times that I simply let these tiny feelings pass without me mulling over their significance or resonance in my present are regrettable. I may have lost too many precious insights just because I was too lazy to pick a pen, or open my laptop, to simply just write what the world was to me in that moment.
I’m missing so many friends. Their collective memory is like an anchor on my heart that I have to pull up… There are a handful of people that I never thought I’d outgrow, or them me. Perhaps it’s a proof of how fleeting junctions in life really are—we meet an assortment of people, some who manage to worm their way in to our heart and affection. In that junction, for what seems like such a brief time, everything is in harmony, it’s the right place and time. Then suddenly, schedules conflict, people move away, tiny ruptures occur from little bouts of misunderstanding, old habits are discarded, ‘friend’ becomes a word for a hallow memory of someone we were fond of in the past. Our paths converge only to diverge in a silent way that will make you hurt for how many times over in a lifetime.
Sometimes I close my eyes and wish that I could go back to a specific place and time, with him, with her, with friends that I haven’t talked to in so long. The older I get, the more I realize that I need friends who knew me when I was growing up. Not that I’m done growing up, but you get what I mean. Somehow, it’s those people who were beside you when you tried your first alcoholic drink/drug/cigarette and puked/coughed your guts out, when you first got your heart broken, when you first realized that the world really is a big place, when you first learned to care, to really care…it’s always those people who were there from the start, who will always understand whoever you will turn out to be. At least it seems that way to me right now. I understand that there’s still so much that I have yet to know, so much that I can’t even begin to imagine yet. But right now, all I'm aware of is that it's enough that I'm here right now, breathing. And maybe someday, at the most opportune time, at my own eureka! moment, everything will begin to make sense.
What is in a tear? When my tears fall, they flow abundantly, like an eternal river whose flow cannot be stopped. Tears are an exercise of elocution, yet I find myself helpless; I am completely wrapped up in the moment and at the mercy of that salty sadness. I have shed tears over a broken heart, he was someone whom I treasured profusely and without question, who ended up hurting me. I cried over precious people that I have lost, to death, and to other unimaginably worse things. (Yes, worse than death.) Those kinds of tears are exhausting because you know that those tears are only that, tears. Some say crying heals the wounds, but sometimes crying is just crying. You’re just simply speechless at the pain you’re experiencing, and the heart talks through the tears. Sometimes it’s all you can do. Tears, well, tear you apart. It just renders you completely open to the world: you are hurting, and everyone can plainly see. If that's a good thing or not, I'm not wise enough to know. But I admire those who can freely cry, unashamed of their pain. Except for those times when it is simply out of my control, I cannot bring myself to be that open. Maybe I’m cowardly like that.
And because of my reluctance to be so open, there are just so many things and people that come by meaninglessly. It makes me sad to realize that people are able to live without touching each other. I'm guilty of that charge. That's why, with all the people out there that you can meet, you just can't continue passing them by. As I grow older, this sentiment gets stronger and stronger.
Most of the time, I still feel pretty confused. I’m on my stomach right now, listening to an old record of Radiohead, there is a tingle in my toes that I can’t seem to just shake out. I think that one of the best things about being human is the ability to be self-aware—aware, in that space of one specific moment, of all the tiny emotions that in the long run will be forgotten in the accumulated highs and tragedies of our lives. Emotions that don’t normally don’t merit an entry in our diaries (or blogs), but carry more weight that we give it credit for. I think these are feelings that I strive the most to write about because I would probably forget about them the next day; and the times that I simply let these tiny feelings pass without me mulling over their significance or resonance in my present are regrettable. I may have lost too many precious insights just because I was too lazy to pick a pen, or open my laptop, to simply just write what the world was to me in that moment.
I’m missing so many friends. Their collective memory is like an anchor on my heart that I have to pull up… There are a handful of people that I never thought I’d outgrow, or them me. Perhaps it’s a proof of how fleeting junctions in life really are—we meet an assortment of people, some who manage to worm their way in to our heart and affection. In that junction, for what seems like such a brief time, everything is in harmony, it’s the right place and time. Then suddenly, schedules conflict, people move away, tiny ruptures occur from little bouts of misunderstanding, old habits are discarded, ‘friend’ becomes a word for a hallow memory of someone we were fond of in the past. Our paths converge only to diverge in a silent way that will make you hurt for how many times over in a lifetime.
Sometimes I close my eyes and wish that I could go back to a specific place and time, with him, with her, with friends that I haven’t talked to in so long. The older I get, the more I realize that I need friends who knew me when I was growing up. Not that I’m done growing up, but you get what I mean. Somehow, it’s those people who were beside you when you tried your first alcoholic drink/drug/cigarette and puked/coughed your guts out, when you first got your heart broken, when you first realized that the world really is a big place, when you first learned to care, to really care…it’s always those people who were there from the start, who will always understand whoever you will turn out to be. At least it seems that way to me right now. I understand that there’s still so much that I have yet to know, so much that I can’t even begin to imagine yet. But right now, all I'm aware of is that it's enough that I'm here right now, breathing. And maybe someday, at the most opportune time, at my own eureka! moment, everything will begin to make sense.
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