It’s hard to pinpoint the exact time in life when crying becomes ugly. The tears are not shed over a literal spillage that can be seen. There’s an internal spillage of emotions that begins at the centre of the chest. Try swallowing and the manifestation of emotion is merely aggravated. Like blowing out a flame only to find the light expand suddenly with each exhale. The chesty feeling both rises and drops. Up to the face and then down to the pit of the stomach. When I look in the mirror I see my face morph into something else. As ugly as it appears the whole ordeal is a relief and often leads to a restful sleep. Crying is exhaustively ugly, yet as an adult it is self-soothing. So when in life does crying become ugly? When you choose to look in the mirror, gasping for air, eyes silently pleading for help.
My eyes opened to a dark candle lit room. A contrast to the mellow sunset I had begun to watch fade. The meditation had bathed me in a glowing white light, so strong I felt the light’s gentle exit as I opened my eyes. I felt my body grounded once again, as if moments before I was floating above where my body sat. Now here on a Tuesday evening I am compelled to write, for I have crumbled under the weight of my reality, countless times since 2022 began. It has been a mentally rocky onset to the year. The tears have been soothing, an exhausting release. Now, in the worn and dry state of surrender I feel there is nothing left but to share my thoughts.
