Sometimes I wonder. . .
Sometimes we need comfort from a stranger. A sister has to be there for you. A boyfriend is expected to wipe your tears away. But a stranger? They have the choice to just pass you by.
Every few months or so, I have a good cry. I'm 24 years old, and I've learn to accept that. Maybe even embrace it. Lately, these good cries have been more frequent and yet still with no real specific reason. It's healthy. I think? Anyway, the sudden urge to purge my soul and shake the emotion off my chest came on a walk home. I made the mistake of thinking a tear or two would be okay. A tear or two was not what happened. Within thirty seconds, I realized a tear or two was only the beginning.
At the intersection of State and South Temple, I waited for the lights to turn the right colors, for the cars to stop, and for that bright white man to tell me it was okay to cross the street. While waiting, a man standing near me made it quite obvious that he was watching. Yes, I'm crying, I sighed to myself. Yes! I'm crying, I sobbed to myself. The tears only found their second wind in knowing a stranger not only noticed my emotion, but that he was very obviously watching my emotional breakdown.
The lights changed, the cars stopped, and the little man lit up on the small black screen a few lanes away. I began to cross the street and so did the stranger. He walked beside me at such a even and intentional pace that it made me uncomfortable. God. The more I tried to stop the crying, the more I tried to hold my breath, the harder my heart's sadness swelled and coughed up through my throat and into the world.
Once we had reached the sidewalk again, the stranger turned to me. His bright blue eyes pierced through the layer of water covering my eyes.
"Tomorrow," he said, "Will be better."
And then he walked the opposite direction. Perhaps to his wife and children. Perhaps to his job. Perhaps back up to heaven where he had come from.
The tears speared out from my eyes with such power, the largest of waterfalls would have felt inspired.
Lately I've been mesmerized by colors. Eyes can be so strongly speckled with green and brown. Lips can be so pink and ripe. Gold has become such a normal popular hue, but if you really look...The creamy, rich, buttery color is understandably high on the color ladder.
It's been getting colder. Wetter. Whiter. I've been feeling black and white. And the gray in-between is never ending. But my! how warm my eyes get when I look into the sun and they blink with honey. The Christmas trees make the city's color's more diverse. And the bubbles of light in the little pond out in front of the Temple downtown fooled me into thinking mermaids were just a couple feet under the surface of the aqua mirrors.
I hope I never forget how electrifying colors are underwater. It makes drowning seem less terrifying. It makes breathing underwater seem more possible.
I used to like having my hair pulled when I was naked in bed. I still like it. But I have to fight off the thoughts that come afterwards: My hair is short! My hair is gone! My hair was once so pretty and long!
I wonder about the women who liked having their breasts squeezed when they were naked in bed and have to have a breast or two removed. I wonder about the women who liked to talk dirty when they were naked in bed, but can't because their voice boxes are broken. I wonder about the women who liked to arch their back when they were naked in bed who can't anymore because their spine is now fused together. I wonder about the woman who liked wrapping their thighs around the men they loved who can't do that anymore because their legs don't work like they used to anymore.
Well, I wonder about a lot, I guess.
Someone told me that there's no action that's a mistake. It's choosing to not take action that's the mistake. I can do a few things in the next couple of weeks, but I don't know which to choose to do. I'm afraid I won't do anything. There's only one mistake to make, and I'm afraid I'm going to make it.