A CRY ILL-AFFORDED

Sometimes he wants to burst out crying extremely loud and cry for all times to come. He doesn't want to stop at all... But nothing happens. The world is moving unlike what he might have assumed. Weakness he cannot show. In feigning, tears dry up. As here is a life to be lived. People to be dealt with. Work to be done. Maybe diseases to be prevented.

You cannot be so privileged to cry. Crying is a long journey. It begins with a little hesitation. When you gather speed, you want to continue. A rhythm gets set. Afterwards, it is fairly easy. Then comes the dragging point. You try to continue even if there are enough reasons to make you stop. And then you stop. Either you realize the futility of the endeavour or the incentive to cry no longer persists.

Even then, he tries to resume. He can't. He searches for motivation. Motivation to begin crying again. He picks up things, looks at things. He stretches his thought till it reaches the unreachable, thinks the unthinkable. He forces visions from the past.

Dreams from a distant past which had promised a beautiful future. In this past he met with a horrible crash and the impact had sent him tumbling into the present. Still tumbling, his feature in the driver-seat is irreparably damaged. He cries as he gathers himself somewhere close to the divide between the present and the future. 'Cause somehow he managed to transcend time.

Rehabilitation seems to be working and he traipses along into the delusional concerns of reality. The present. A shaky foundation of an eventual future.

But there again... he is on the verge of tears.

His teary self is precariously close to the precipice. Always. He doesn't have to walk far to reach the edge, dive into a free fall.

Niagara, Angel or Victoria, he can be anyone or all of these. He is a colossal, salty, tumbling, mumbling mass. Behind the wardrobe door, at the basin, in the shower, at lunch or just walking away from a group, face turned. Without barely a stimulant like a flash of memory, an image or a touchy word.

His favourite though - crying in the bed. Yes, there's a favourite crying kind!

He has cried and cried, as if he can magically conjure up tears endlessly. Nobody realizes it is all real, all felt... and as always nothing changes, so he cries even more. The world is still upright, moving and working and playing and dancing.

Patronizing. Shamefully condescending. There are cliffs and falls having far superior claim to a cry than yours. They mightily ridicule your drops.

You cannot be serious, can you be? How easily your eyes gather fog!" People have undergone unspeakably worse without so much as a hint of moisture.' Stop patronizing self.

So now all you do is wait. You wait till tremendous guilt takes over. You realize you have no right. Yes, not even to cry. Especially to cry. Not a drop. That, like many other preoccupations, is a luxury. Cannot be afforded by likes of you.

What are the likes of him? He reflects.

White stained, ugly, maybe sensitive and definitely overthinking. He reflects. More reflection. Some more. But no conclusion.

Now, another round, round the corner. All his tears come back in raging storms of justification and superiority. His grief stands tall. It too deserves redemption. He... is holding forth, focusing all his energy now. His insides contract. Futility of being is unbearable. Pushing through unbearable flurry of emotions are renewed tears, again insignificant in all, to all. Now there is a surge inside followed by choking.

The world moves past as always. No one will realize, no one will acknowledge. Hence, he may not himself.

You are a fool. Never seen someone like you. Your concerns are as trivial as the air we breathe, undeserving and unnoticed.

He maybe common. His concerns are not, his mind counters.

Shuddering, he gasps for breath. Will he ever stop crying?

I wish he were that important for me to tell and you to know.

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