Why I Love To Cry

My favorite moments, coincidentally, are the saddest. The ones where my entire being was cleansed of the petty, inconsequential nuisances of this world and was filled with nothing but pure emotion, usually love. Love so raw and painful that it welled up inside me and escaped in the form of salt water and tightly clenched fingers.

My favorite day on this earth thus far was also one of the most bittersweet. It began with new music and seawall jumping, and ended with a 2:00am walk with an old friend, realizing that this was the point at which our lives would never be the same again. That friend and I have yet to cross paths since.

The saddest moments are also the most vivid.

I will never forget lying in bed two years ago, staring up at the ceiling, when the taste of apple tea and fried rice in my mind forced me to a sitting position as I silently wept at the ceiling because I knew I could never taste it again.

I can vividly recall the nights in which my AP US History readings and Math Analysis worksheets pushed me past the 12:30 brink of desperation, a place I'd never been before, and I would suddenly remember Mr. Coia's class discussions or Ms. Burger's freshman history class and wish I was anywhere but at a desk in Virginia, head on my textbook, exhausted from striving for the perfection I'd never reach.

I will forever cling to the infinite minutes I spent stretched over the center console of a Civic, arms clasped tightly in an embrace, sniffling back tears of fear and regret, but also drinking in every second because I'd never felt more deeply loved.

And my favorite of all these is the saddest. The one I can't even write. Because the truth is that some moments are more beautiful than a mere 26 letters can depict.