One recent morning I was laying in bed, not thinking about anything in particular, and a tear came out of my right eye. It surprised me; I wasn’t sad or experiencing any feeling one would associate with tears. No mourning, no dread, no stress, no loneliness. Yet, the tear came out, and took the short route to my pillowcase.
The drop was cold. In duty to whatever allegiance it assigned itself.
What was I to think of this?
Generally speaking, I don’t need hard evidence to form a conclusion. Evidence is the vault of humanity’s folly. The vault is carpeted; it’s air-conditioned, neat and organized. It’s designed to assure you, to keep you from straying.
I like to wander.
I tend to conclude, and quite well, from a long line of soft points, observed over time and gathered here and there.
Why did I cry. If this were a movie, with a close-up of my face, there would have been a dissolve to another scene, from long ago. Perhaps we’d see a final goodbye, or two young people dancing, their entire lives in front of them. Maybe the camera would show you a picnic scene for two.
The camera would have shown you evidence. Pushed you into a locked room. Here is why this lone man was crying. Right here. This dance. This conversation. This picnic.
But, I haven’t been to a dance in ages. There are no traces left of any moving conversations. And I can’t really recall one specific memory that would warrant such a focus.
For the life of me.