i trust that i am not the only one
who sometimes finds that the only way i can allow myself to cry is to read a book written or watch a movie made only to invoke emotion. it is cheap, and some would argue that it’s fake, but i’m here, sweating tears despite my barely clothed state. (some child is dying. in this book. i’ve been crying since the first page.)
i must be a sodden mess, crying and sweating, despite an open window blowing cool air through my room. my skin is feverish and my heart is heavy. i always believe that there must be something better than that which i hold in my hands. i have discarded treasure for garbage, in hopes that the next time my silver will become gold. this isn’t an acceptable reason to cry. vague & simple sadness. it isn’t enough (though some fictional child losing her hold on life, is?)
i am not writing this for you. i am writing this to write. and in hopes that maybe written word can do something to douse the fire consuming my body lately. last night, my shame at wanting more my fear that i have depleted my share of ease in makingnewfriendslovingmeetingchangingadapting made hot water run down the inside of my cheeks until i truly believed i would vomit up my fear. my regret. my shame. my dinner (midnight french fries. don’t act surprised.) instead i lay both shivering and sweating until eventually i’d slept enough to greet the morning groggily. regretfully.