Crying is more of a cathartic experience for some, not all, but some. He gave up on crying back when he realized he was addicted. The effeminate addiction of it all was starting to show like signs of a battered spouse: dark circles, swollen eyes, raspy voice. He realized that despite its uselessness it was becoming a daily habit. Everything caused a welling of the eyes: every touch and every harsh word from a stranger on the street. He blamed her for it. He blamed her for even trying to understand his burgundy pain. A pain he often labeled as his pride his mind.
He gave up that day he was standing in the rain waiting for the metro. It was late as usual. The fact that he would miss the meeting with her made him cry. Those salty tears blending with the polluted water dripping from the rain were like knowledge. Red lips parted, the taste of dirt falling into his mouth, eyes bloodshot and cheeks burning hot. It clicked, he felt the entire world fall into an abyss.
She showed up and stopped the rain with a blue sparkly umbrella she bought from a dollar store and left in her Nissan rental car. He remembered every detail, every lost thought. Maybe she wasn't his savoir, maybe she wasn't anything. She was a mere illusion created by his fantasies. There was no umbrella there was no rain there were no tears, her hazel eyes and brown hair didn't truly exist in a tangible world. But he was crying. His mind was a shopping center and all the stores were closed. The night security guard was swinging his night stick.
It was a funeral but he didn't want to be grim. He didn't wear black to mourn so he ended up wearing a blue t-shirt and jeans.
No he's not concentrating because she wants him to try this vegetarian chili at the new restaurant somewhere near her house. How the hell can you make vegetarian chili? He wonders idly. She can't answer his thought and begins playing a mournful song on the violin.
It pissed him off.
"Shut the hell up."
The hobo who lived in the bus terminal looked at him; snorted; then rolled over.
"Fuck." He was still crying when the red, white and blue bus with squeaky breaks stopped its gurgling moan. The bus was late and he looked at his watch in a hurry. Who needs linear time anyways, she didn't use a regular clock by normal standards by far.
Fragments of the imagination are more or less just streams of thought in the mind, less existentialism and more theoretical physics. Some of the most brilliant thoughts are those blurted out in random blankness with no prior connection. They stay with you for ever. Stuck more or less like gum on the bottom of a shoe and just as sticky as the floors of a cheap theater. The red exit sign gave him a headache when he was a kid and it only made him hate the place more. His moment of greatness peaked when he was nineteen, too bad it's gone and done and she wasn't there to see it. Or was she, and he just didn't notice. He doesn't remember when she popped up, her dark hair and those leopard print shoes. Like a two bit whore but with a better vocabulary.
Some of the sanest people in his memory are those that are the most eccentric.
It began with that girl in the hallway during 10th grade. He never asked her name and never found out, but she wore a red, no a burgundy jacket, button up. She had blonde hair and blue eyes. He especially remembered her eyes because they were gorgeous. They reminded him of the pool in Washington the reflective one, was it some pop culture reference he didn't get or was the world just one big reflective pool.
She has milk skin and she is nice. Sweet, not like honey sweet but like the way a ripe mango tastes when you first bite into it. The raw material of her mind is laid out for him to see. She laughs and runs toward him. He is unsure what to do so he stands still. She grabs his arm and kisses him square on the lips. "Life isn't so bad after all, don't stop writing." The Dean sees her kiss him the second time and they both get in trouble. She laughs in his face, a clear echoing laugh. A real laugh, not that fake laugh in the background of late night sitcoms. He loves it and he may have loved her if it wasn't for the fact that he never watches TV.
He still can't concentrate. Large numbers and a fax machine are the worst combination. Going insane. He's been slacking off but not really because he took a ton of customers yesterday.
Flash of light.
He sat in a room, a dentist's office to be precise. The viral light is shined in his eyes. Tears streamed against his cheeks. He couldn't help his bodily function. He gave up meaningful crying, not involuntary reflexes.
She is there again holding his arm as they walk. She whispers in his ear and he smiles at her. They are in love again. Love is not a constant thing. As the French well know, a woman's will is God's will. Her mystery makes him wonder, but never ask. It makes her titter with delight that he is so naïve. Happiness is the most painful of all emotion, because when it leaves, all hope is abandoned. Despair is the only comfort in the world. It wraps him in a blanket during the coldest winter. It greets him when the world seems to want to murder him. It even could grant the greatest of gifts by releasing him from a life he is not satisfied with. Every day she is with him, walking the same beaten path, he knows the day where sorrow will meet him in the rift between this happiness and the next is coming.
That void in his heart makes him cry. The tears well up so fast, she can't react. Panic. Panic!
She runs. The day came.
The shattered sections sliced into his hands. Blood. Red, gleaming blood. The little platelets unseen to the human eye made the blood flowing out thick. Thick like glue. He fixed his life without her. He put back all the segments crushed under her foot.
The clock ticked.
This was his life without her: Linear time mattered again. The hour made sense and the minute determined night and day as it should.
Tedium morphed into the executioner of normalcy. He shifted uncomfortably in his black and white chair.
Suddenly, the world spun. Vertigo consumed him and he fell from that chair onto the hard parquet floor. Searing needles nestled their way into his heart. Like gnomes trying to violently rape his organs. Pickaxes and spades digging. He wished.
And then, so sadistically, the hot anguish flowed. It streaked his mind with discontent.
The cycle started again. He felt the sky and the wind and the earth taunt him for his weakness.
He felt the heavens and the underworld. The Greek and Roman gods greeted him with tonic wine at their door step. Pure white light blinded his vision. Perfectly synchronized voices flowed freely like bells tinkering together to make a complicatedly layered song. The deep growl of a dreadful demon bound in clattering chains echoed against mossy stone walls. The cool summer's breeze brushed gently against his neck. Goose pimples spread like an icy hot fire along his back. Lukewarm waters of the River Akheron moved through his fingers, relaxing his mind. The sickly sweet scent of ambrosia spread in blossoms all around him to be pushed back by the putrid stench of a Mephitis shrine. Deliciously sharp tastes of Asphodel flowers flooded his mouth, and a sense of contentment sunk down into his cerebral cortex.
It was a religious experience with no denomination. Cathartic.