I used to cry in the rain once. It was a perfectly natural excuse to bathe my sorrows in ambient moisture and hide them in plain sight.
His universe is thundering down in tiny fragments. Reality falls abruptly from different directions. If lucky one drop will scratch beneath the surface.
Every tear drop burns and he winces. Invisibly crying a waterfall. Paradoxically questioned for deception and secrets.
Behind his strong exterior of tungsten. How long can he walk down a lone road with no sense of direction of purpose? Deluding himself he is indestructible. Detrimental.
It was closer to grief than pain, synonymous to those who refuse to differentiate but equally exhausting to others who recall. Like a fleeting moment of recognition.
The crooked and decrepit house moans in agony when tears of the sky flood its weak foundation.
Every memory he possessed became submerged in an instant. Ignorance is bliss.
Recollections of lost instances flooded him in that second. Rendering his once shared worldview crooked.
Lapses in time lost while under guise or being illusory. Remnants of his soul now in dilapidation.
Why, and how, can I relate? What personified hurt I share with that which I hope relieves it? What kind of paradox allows me to smile in pain yet cry out of joy? Why has it been so hard to feel... anything?