A Mediocre Cry Three Years Ago
Here’s a poem-y text fragment I wrote in my poem-y diary just about three years ago:
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I had a good cry today. Didn’t help. Maybe it wasn’t that good a cry, then. I don’t know what exactly constitutes a good cry. I kind of always thought it was just a cry that helps you get that big proverbial sob out of your throat. Problem today was – the sob was still there after the cry. Not sure what kind of sob stuff is stuck in there, though. Probably problematic stuff. About life. My life. Maybe the lack of someone else’s life in mine. Maybe the lack of my life in mine. Nothing a cry could cure, anyway. I should just go to bed. Maybe read for a little while before going to sleep. Some sad book to make me think there’s other people somewhere feeling more like shit than I do. Which is, after all, rather likely.l
This summerly, lighthearted, sanguine literary masterpiece was obviously B.H. – before Hubby. I can’t remember feeling that way since we’ve been together. I am happy to report that these days, I mostly cry about other people’s misery, preferrably people in movies or books. Hardly any romantic self-pity involved anymore. Growing up – check. About time, too!
I wonder… do dogs yap on about how doggy they are? Do butterflies feel inclined to tell all the world how they are butterflying around? And… do Grown-Ups even call themselves that?
Tags: home & living, museum