Nothing's Turned Out How You Wanted
Evolved adaptations afford us to grapple with the problems that are posed by our environment. Calluses, for example, form to protect us from repeated friction to skin. Similarly, as the years of our lives go by, we become metaphorically calloused -- jaded, hardened, and arguably stronger. We learn to resist the abrasions that, in our younger days, would have left deep wounds. The deep wounds heal to minor cuts which heal to scars. But the scar remains for life (Don't get me started on Neosporin Scar Solution).
But no matter how secure and bolted we are in our daily public interactions, inside each and everyone of us is the newborn baby butt. That soft supple skin to which even a minor dent is foreign (in a world without diaper rash). And sometimes, the emotion and sensitivity uncontrollably starts ripping us apart, inside out.
There's nothing like a good cry. The snake sheds the dry dead skin of its outer layer and slithers away. The droplets stinging your tear ducts, the stream burning your face, the warm blood inundating your ears, the frequent gasps of air interrupting the silence. Crying is such a paradoxically liberating feeling especially when we think we've forgotten how.
I'll be the first to admit that crying does not solve anything. But sometimes, neither do words. They sound crass and insignificant. But with the tears flow your emotion, each drop encapsulating the toxins. Purging yourself of the emotion only means that it is no longer part of you. You are distanced. You can now face it without it gnawing at your insides. It is now part of that dry calloused world, not inside the supple eternal youth of your psyche.
Sometimes humorous, occasionally intellectual, and rarely quiet. But even behind that one, is a hermit having a good cry. No reason. No solution. And yet, liberated. Oscar Wilde once wrote, "Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones." All due respect, Mr. Wilde, but the woman who does not cry, soul bursting at the seams with untamed toxins, can never be beautiful.
Yes, we're strong. Calloused. Blistered. But sometimes it's just easier to pop the blister than to walk on it. And besides, if we swear off crying, how will we ever express our tears of joy?
But no matter how secure and bolted we are in our daily public interactions, inside each and everyone of us is the newborn baby butt. That soft supple skin to which even a minor dent is foreign (in a world without diaper rash). And sometimes, the emotion and sensitivity uncontrollably starts ripping us apart, inside out.
There's nothing like a good cry. The snake sheds the dry dead skin of its outer layer and slithers away. The droplets stinging your tear ducts, the stream burning your face, the warm blood inundating your ears, the frequent gasps of air interrupting the silence. Crying is such a paradoxically liberating feeling especially when we think we've forgotten how.
I'll be the first to admit that crying does not solve anything. But sometimes, neither do words. They sound crass and insignificant. But with the tears flow your emotion, each drop encapsulating the toxins. Purging yourself of the emotion only means that it is no longer part of you. You are distanced. You can now face it without it gnawing at your insides. It is now part of that dry calloused world, not inside the supple eternal youth of your psyche.
Sometimes humorous, occasionally intellectual, and rarely quiet. But even behind that one, is a hermit having a good cry. No reason. No solution. And yet, liberated. Oscar Wilde once wrote, "Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones." All due respect, Mr. Wilde, but the woman who does not cry, soul bursting at the seams with untamed toxins, can never be beautiful.
Yes, we're strong. Calloused. Blistered. But sometimes it's just easier to pop the blister than to walk on it. And besides, if we swear off crying, how will we ever express our tears of joy?
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