And the tears came.
They ebbed and flowed like a seasonal flood.
But this wasn't a seasonal occurrence. He hadn't cried in ages. It seemed as if he was crying from memory.
Memories of a past he didn't want. Memories from a past that had broken him.
But he wept all the same, shedding all shame and fear. He wept like never before. And those painful, watery utterances kept flowing. Almost like a deep wound. Perhaps it was a wound.
But he didn't know. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop.
He cried silently in the deep night. He let the tears stain his face. He wanted them to stain his face. He wanted the tears to purge his unholiness.
And as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. They stopped with the speed of thought. But he wasn't thinking anymore.
And finally he came to his senses.
The paper he had been writing on was soaked. The ink had spread and smudged. Instead of coherent words, flimsy remnants of his thoughts remained. It's true, he thought. The flood's taken my life away. It can destroy all that I value. It's finally come for me. This must be the end.
With an insouciance that was insane and logical, he began hammering his forehead with his fists until his knuckles began to bleed. But he couldn't make out whether it was his forehead that was bleeding or his knuckles. The sight of blood pacified him. And he sat down with the weariness of youth.
But he was calm. He went and rinsed his hands in cold water. It seemed to cut through his hands. But he did not wince. Then he wiped his forehead clean and washed his face. The redness in his eyes was fading. He sat down and took a deep breath...
The next minute, he was back to his novel, etching his thoughts with a sanity few could have predicted.
Follow @diaporesis
They ebbed and flowed like a seasonal flood.
But this wasn't a seasonal occurrence. He hadn't cried in ages. It seemed as if he was crying from memory.
Memories of a past he didn't want. Memories from a past that had broken him.
But he wept all the same, shedding all shame and fear. He wept like never before. And those painful, watery utterances kept flowing. Almost like a deep wound. Perhaps it was a wound.
But he didn't know. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop.
He cried silently in the deep night. He let the tears stain his face. He wanted them to stain his face. He wanted the tears to purge his unholiness.
And as suddenly as they had started, the tears stopped. They stopped with the speed of thought. But he wasn't thinking anymore.
And finally he came to his senses.
The paper he had been writing on was soaked. The ink had spread and smudged. Instead of coherent words, flimsy remnants of his thoughts remained. It's true, he thought. The flood's taken my life away. It can destroy all that I value. It's finally come for me. This must be the end.
With an insouciance that was insane and logical, he began hammering his forehead with his fists until his knuckles began to bleed. But he couldn't make out whether it was his forehead that was bleeding or his knuckles. The sight of blood pacified him. And he sat down with the weariness of youth.
But he was calm. He went and rinsed his hands in cold water. It seemed to cut through his hands. But he did not wince. Then he wiped his forehead clean and washed his face. The redness in his eyes was fading. He sat down and took a deep breath...
The next minute, he was back to his novel, etching his thoughts with a sanity few could have predicted.
Follow @diaporesis
Comments
Crying surges, indeed, often well up inside of us and burst through our emotional floodgates, gushing with such force we wonder why and how. I, too, feel memories linger deep in one's heart, even those we feel we have "dealt with" and they rise again, like a giant waterfall unleased with such force, it does feel like blood, like our blood has stained our lives. I wonder, though, how long that release lasts? Are some memories meant to cut forever. I hope not.
P.S. I tried a post, written with subtle humor and a bit more...when you have a chance, I'd welcome your thoughts.