I always had an odd relationship with crying. The idea of tears has always been a slippery slope to me.
Back in my younger days, I remembered crying a lot — running up to my room and burying my face in my pillows;
Especially whenever I made my family or my friends disappointed.
But as I grew older, I was more exposed to the reality of the world. I learned things the hard way, that kindness was not a universal language —
And caring was not necessarily always reciprocated.
When I became older, I found myself withdrawing from emotions. I started seeing crying as a sign of weakness. I knew I was slipping, I was slipping from the person that I was —
But I couldn’t care less.
I didn’t want anyone to be able to have that hold on me, to be able to make me feel.
My heart hardened, my tears less frequent.
Tears became a secret,
A forgotten whisper from the depths of my heart;
Tears were pushed aside as quickly as they fell,
Tears were no longer caught by my pillow;
Tears were no longer seen by anyone,
Tears became a well-kept secret.
The duct became well-sealed, well-hidden.
As I grew older however, my ‘touch’ with emotions and feelings just became all the more stronger. I always had a knack of feeling —
Of feeling everything, all at once;
To feeling nothing at all.
And now when I look back, I wondered if I ever should have stopped feeling.
