“Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before—more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle.”-Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Lately, I’ve been unable to cry.
I’m not going to tell you all the benefits of tears like how they keep the eyes moisturized and the heart lighter.
I’m not going to tell you how heavy my heart feels or how it’s physically stopping me from moving.
I won’t tell you how many sad songs I’ve listened to or how many sad movies I’ve watched and how my tear glands deceived me into thinking I might cry; how they stung like salt on fresh wound and produced nothing.
I’m not going to talk about how all these things only made my load heavier or how it felt when my heavy heart sunk into my stomach.
Immobilized from all the moisture my body has withheld, I sit, punished by own body.
And so I write. My fingers flying over the keyboard and maybe my body will release me. Sweet sweet release.
All I get is that familiar sting and a little lubrication. A bit of throat clogging. And then nothing. No tears.
Am I now too powerful for tears?
Has an alien taken over my body and does it now prevent my display of humanity?
I desperately fear that I will never again feel the liberating wetness of tears.