Tears are confusing.
I get them when I’m angry. Those are the boiled ones. They appear without a warning and before you know, the voice, the face, the screen, the idea against which I’m battling them fogs over and uncertainty creeps in. Have you ever closed an excited, barking dog’s eyes as it pranced around you? That startles it.
Then the happy ones. They’re welcome. I think we mix happy with relief. No. I don’t cry when I am relieved. I smile and walk on. Literally. With feet-movement. But happy is that Aahan-wali feeling.
I think I am a walking, breathing corpse when I am sad, though. When Acchappa died, I was there, walking about like the housekeeping- doing the work and with no real relation to the person there. When SNIFF was stomped out, I had run out of tears, but I felt the sadness.
Sometimes, though, there’s this unidentified stimulus that sets the waters rolling. It’s like someone’s twisting my insides. Like today, when I read that book and all I wanted was to hear his voice. Any other sound is only inviting more agitated tears. I want to stop them- he sure doesn’t cry because he hasn’t heard my voice. Why do I, then?
But the problem here is tears. They only exaggerate the emotion in the real world. The way they cannot be stopped offends my ego. I wish they could be spoken to, man-to-man, so that they’d have a role, and specific timing of arrival.
And they’re salty, so not a fan.