I sit there and then I cry. I cry and I cry, unlike any other time that I've cried. I've read somewhere that biologically humans have different kind of tears, for example tears of sadness can be differentiated from tears of anxiety or anger in terms of the chemicals released together with the tears. I don't know if the temperature of the tears come into the equation of different types of tears, but I clearly remember this one being extraordinarily cold, like streams of iceberg were unraveling on my cheeks. Collecting at the nape of my head and forming, South Pole, if you will, at the bridge of my nerve system in the brain and the rest of my body.
Much like everything else in the past, for the life of me I can't even remember why the hell did I even cry then in the first place. Like a broken old film roll, I can only be content with fluttering images with no coherent structure of a plot and left to create my own reasoning for whatever happened in the past. Create my own sense of why I am happy now or why I am sad now or why I'm so full of contradictions now or why I sin in such a way.
Such is life. Some avant-garde, art-house pseudo-intellectual movie that nobody can understand, even the actors and actresses, even the boom guy, the director, the producer, the critic. With only yourself, as the sole audience.
