What makes you cry the most? Hearing a sad story? Or being a part of a sad story? Have you ever realised tears gives pleasure? Have you ever realised we think and love ourselves more when we cry? What is it if it is not the joy of sorrow?
When have you last told yourself that no one understands you more than yourself? When was the last time you hugged yourself and told yourself you are not wrong? When was the last time you pitied yourself for all the things that happened with you? Have you, in that moment realised that the other side of the grass seems greener? Have you at least attempted to put yourself in the other person’s shoes?
Nothing... We know nothing in that moment can blow that passion that burns inside us. We know yet we don’t realise that self love balms our warped souls.
When was the last time you read a book? Karlos Ruiz Zafon said “every Book has a soul, the soul of the person who wrote it and the soul of those who read it and dream about it.” Don’t you think it is true? You cry along with the character. You laugh along; you sing along, you dance along. Or you just forget yourself and inhabit the character’s soul. It happens. A sweet escape.
But again, when you cry along with the character, or maybe, inside the character, don’t you know you are right? Don’t you experience a bout of depression overwhelming you? Don’t you realise that the only company you crave is that of tears and sobs in that moment?
Sometimes, all that you just need is a really good, hard cry. And the reason could also be ‘a crying practice’. Release all that builds up inside you on to your pillow through the flow of tears. It is akin to a pressure cooker.
In my case, I just blame it on that extra X chromosome.
It’s ok. It’s just the joy of sorrow.
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