why is it i cry from fiction
watching a man's face being crushed with a hammer, or not seeing, just hearing and feeling my body tense and breaths that are hard to take. i lie in my dark room, blankets pressing down, hand over my soft breast, heart creating echoes among the blue-caged walls. i keep crying when i think about the hate-filled character, brutalizing people and murdering a little girl.
he only looked scared when he realized the baby would never know his name; terror, human emotion and fear finally burrowed in his chest; then he was shot.
my eyes are open and the stinging continues.
i finally let emotions move in all their ever-sweeping power. i heave...but for characters? or for the story, the feeling, the truth that was spoken and shared and conveyed with creative vibrancy for the world to experience, for me to feel. only her little body died, she left and was once again a princess, once again with her family and beyond this mortal world. i cry for it all. i keep going beyond the edge, i felt it walking up my stairs after i was dropped off, emotionally heavy and vulnerable. for a while i was calm, after a day in laguna, sun smelling and sun-filled laziness, but being left on the curb changed that, i had no words to explain to your ears.
did you feel my heart and see my eyes?
so porous. but i used it. i transformed my space last night and wrote. did i dance? i focused o my heart and fell asleep, awaking tired from vivid dreams. i recorded them half asleep, letters barely legible, but providing and awakening memories none-the-less.
this morning i danced
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