Which is why we can never truly prepare ourselves. We may see it coming, we may understand why, but that never makes it any easier.
Every tear is an entity. An expression that swells to escape our bodies.
Every day is a chance to heal.
Which is why we can never truly prepare ourselves. We may see it coming, we may understand why, but that never makes it any easier.
Every tear is an entity. An expression that swells to escape our bodies.
Every day is a chance to heal.
It became painfully obvious that my turn-on of girls crying is related to my own penchant for sad lovemaking.
I’ve always liked the idea of bringing someone from tears to blissful physical pleasure. Like make-up sex without the fighting.
A girl was able to do that for me once, so I’ve always wanted to be able to do it for someone else.
Either that, or my sadness is mingling with my lust.
When a man is full, what can he do?
Burst.
—Zorba, the Greek
Or in my case, overflow.
I started crying in class. Thankfully, no one noticed. People can get awkward around a crier. Unfortunately, suppressing a good cry is as unsatisfying as stifling a sneeze.
A lot of people having been saying the wrong things to me lately. On top of that, the abundance of interaction I have with people — a side-effect of my projects — is leaving me drained and overstimulated.
I don’t even have time to deal with this. I have to put it all aside, because there are more important things to think about right now.
At the bus stop, I realized that I have a tendency to brood. I don’t listen to happy songs to get me out of the mood. It’s all minor keys and lemon peels, so I can help it run its course.
It’s been a rough week.
Sometimes, a part of myself spills out.
This looks familiar.
A place I’ve been, a feeling I’ve had, a girl I fucked one night in the fall.
Back then she cried. Lying in bed next to me, she told me she was sorry. I believed her, but I didn’t trust the tears, because she knew how much it turns me on. She got what she wanted anyway, and I suppose I did too.
That was the last night I saw her.
But it isn’t candid enough. It’s too forced. Unnatural. As if she’s trying too hard again to capture what was lost, and what she could have had.
So she found another version, and used him in my place.
The art of longing’s over, and it’s never coming back.
—Leonard Cohen, Death of a Ladies’ Man
They ask me why I’m crying. I tell them the song is too good, not to cry.
They ask me why there’s a bounce in my step. I tell them I’m in love, and I don’t care.
They ask me if she’s taken. I tell them she is.
They ask me if she knows. I tell them it doesn’t matter as long as I feel this way, and I’m never letting go.
They ask me, “Why her?”.
I tell them she makes me happy without trying.