Crying: A Slice of TIme
I’ve been wanting to cry for days now. Not because of anything specific, just general malaise from following the prickly path of my life as a writer: feeling stuck in my next project, seeing just a trickle of monetary results from my first book, two years out. Feeling like it’s all too much. I tried to cry, believing it would open clogged channels and relieve stress.
This morning, I prepared for the day, slathering moisturizer with sunscreen on my face, knowing I would walk with Barbara in the bright Florida morning. “Walking will loosen my stiff joints,” she said.
“I definitely agree,” I replied, even though I was concentrating on my right eye, which was beginning to ache. Why was that? Apparently, the lotion I’d put on my face had oozed into my eye as the heat and humidity increased on our walk.
As I sat down in my writing studio, the irritation worsened. Okay, I’ll press a wet washcloth to my eyelid. The pain worsened. Then, I dropped some Genteal eye solution onto my cornea. It didn’t help much. More eye drops, a soaped up-washcloth. Then, I turned my face under the faucet and let the flow irrigate my eye. That helped a little, but then my nose started to run.
Finally, I began to cry, clearing out sinuses and all the emotion stuck behind my eyes and lodged in my heart.
“Her [Kay’s] throat felt thick inside; it was the lump that forms when it might help to cry but tears don’t come.” Author Amy Kenyon in Ford Road