on writing

It’s a good cry. The overflow of the heart’s tumultuous waves. Rather than a proper and limited display, hinting at the existence of a heart, it is the wail of a colicky baby whose face burns red hot, whose energy and passion focus on one thing. Babiesclench theirfists and contracttheir little diaphragms to bring forth this one action. A piercing cry. Noise with such intensity that every soul around must stop and notice. 

Rather than the embarrassing consequence of a touching movie scene, it is the overwhelming product of life when jubilation, grief, relief, anxiety, anger, desperation, denial, betrayal, and hope play their part in forcing the clear crystals out into the world. Others see the crystals and attempt to guess their meaning, while only the owner truly knows the depth of emotions that defines each droplet. Even with the lack of mutual understanding, the value of the shared feeling does not lessen. 

Rather than the artificial substance some performers use to somehow bring out real tears to their audience’s eyes, it is also the sob of a brokenhearted girl into her pink ruffled pillow. Bursts of emotions flood through and, though muted by the pillow, are as real as the unappealing mix of tears, saliva, and mucus that stainsthe pink ruffles. This sob cannot be cued to start and stop; it will not stop until it has run its course. Tired and spent, sleep overwhelms, and the broken hearted girl leave only tear stains to bear witness to the memories.

In the morning, the time comes to face reality, albeit with puffy eyes and a throbbing headache. With the night’s slumber and the start of a new day comes the strength to sort through the stains of memories, carefully selecting what to treasure and what to discard. I leave behind discarded memories, not entirely forgetting them, but accepting and learning from them. Carefully tucking the treasures in the crevices of the heart, the journey of making new memories begins afresh.


Tirza Magdiel - Seattle, 2012