I was thinking … we rather don’t cry because of people, or because of situations that we have complicated beyond the necessary. We cry because of the ghosts from our own nights, from those forgotten, terrible, unforgiven dreams. We cry in anticipation and in loss, stubbornly looking at the faces of black holes, who believe no one’s tears and rob us of the world we’ve woven, thread by thread.
The soul, like a patient of a gray-haired house, is staring through her glasses into the prison window, and anxiously catching the sounds of a metronome from darkness’ past and future. She can’t remember … will there be a letter? Did anyone call? And what about the kiss … when? The loyal armchair, where is it now? And tears are shed about every new theft.
We consider fireworks of emotions a paradise, but it is just until those sparks burn us back ricocheting off from the emptiness of steel bottomless eyes, like bullets. So, if you cry for a long time into the void, Herr Nietzsche, tell me will she cry back at you, shedding the stars into the wilted firmament? Will the once-stolen light be returned?
I remember once I fell asleep with wet eyes.
And strangely so: I woke up in euphoria.
The abyss’ smile slid over me.
I guess we call it “joie de vivre”.