After tears, there's always that gasp of air that tastes like relief, and boy, does it taste fresh. My fondness for crying has always been rooted in an attempt to rest and react not of my own accord. To simply, feel. To know this, in this moment, is real because I...didn't consciously partake in it. But of course that's nonsense because I did choose to engage and I did choose to be empathetic, saddened and perhaps, hurt. I chose to feel and to express it with tears. So I'm unafraid to say I look forward to things that I know will make me want to tremble, and contemplate to what degree my noisy expressions will irritate my company. I enjoy the clumsy desperation of seeking tissues from strangers to dry my face, am enchanted by the first tear that draws a path upon my skin that the others sometimes follow and am delighted when I become so overwhelmed I sound like an animal beneath a butcher's cleaver. I see strength in crying. I see the audacity to feel and be felt by the world that surrounds us. I see a tremendous wonder in becoming a feeling being. I see outreached hands for a perplex world that never held ours once. The world becomes a state of dripping fog that cools the bare bodies lying on beaches, and moistens the dirt to become a worm's paradise, and falls upon our spread tongues.
How thirsty we are, and how tasty our tears.
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