Crying Isn’t Pretty (k.p.k)
Crying isn’t pretty. I don’t care who the fuck wrote it as roses blossoming from your tired eyes, or waterfalls slowly descending from your tear ducts. Crying isn’t something that makes you feel like the words of a sonnet. No, crying isn’t fucking pretty. I saw the girl I love cry once and her mouth twisted into a snarl, like a dog about to bite. Snot ran down her nose, along the curve of her lip and onto the pillow of my bed. I had just washed my sheets that day. Her face scrunched up like she had just been punched in the stomach and her hands balled into little fists like she was waiting to punch them back. But she couldn’t. She didn’t. She just cried and I watched how her mascara started to smear down her cheeks, in long black trails that reminded me of mud dragged into the house from the bottoms of your shoes. I saw the girl I love cry so hard her shoulders shook like there was an earthquake but nobody else was under the doorframe waiting for the roof to cave in. She sobbed so hard that her breathing was ragged; a knife in between her ribcage, a blockage in her throat. She cried until she made no noise, but still her mouth moved like a fish pulled out the water and left there to hang in its oxygen hell. Her face got all red and blotchy and I could have sworn I had seen a painting that looked almost like she did, in that moment. But crying isn’t pretty. No, it’s not supposed to be. She told me her chest was hurting and her head was aching and she felt so real to me. With her hair scattered in all directions, and train tracks in black lines crawling down her face, she was so real and she was so beautiful and she was in so much pain but she looked at me and smiled anyways. No, crying is not pretty but I knew right then I would be so lucky to be the one to cry at our wedding.
For the most part, “naturals” are myths. People who are especially good at something may have some innate inclination, or some particular talent, but they have also spent about ten thousand hours practicing or doing that thing.
How do you know if your inner voice or sense of guidance is your deeper-self speaking its wisdom, your unconscious childhood programming, or the voice of your Aunt Matilda? Discerning the difference between an automatic response stemming from family beliefs, childhood distortions, or culture, and guidance from our connection with our higher/deeper self, makes life, success, and relationships so much easier.
Maybe we choose to stay in a constant state of ignorance as a protective instinct — maybe I was just in denial. I just don’t get how you can be completely in love with someone one day, and then all of a sudden you just aren’t. I will never forget that day…the day where I became numb.
I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.
I want you.
Your lips on mine.
Your hands around my waist.
My lips on your neck.
My hands running through your hair.
I want you.
In my bed.
Right next to me.
Holding me tight.
Talking about anything.
Gentle kisses in between thoughts.
Our tired eyes holding contact.
Slowly falling asleep.
I would say that introverts make some of the best international philosophers. The less common attribute of the introverted lifestyle - a close societal connection, as such a connection disappears or changes in relevance as the currents of the winds change - leaves too much room for one’s own cultural bias. Instead, introverts tend to turn inward, the laboratory of being and all its forms. This is the most accurate study of the individual human being, which is in turn, rather than those affected by cultural limitations, the most universal reflection of human understanding and human behavior.