In the last two weeks, I’ve cried more than in the previous five or seven years.

This is not to make some sort of dramatic statement, per se: it’s simply a fact.

Sometimes it seems there are clear reasons to cry, and sometimes there’s just crying out of nowhere and it surprises me.

I guess that since I’ve allowed myself to go wherever my feelings take me, recently, the whole thing opened up, and it keeps doing so.

Emotional maintenance, long overdue.

The crying always seems close.

In the background, patiently waiting.

It doesn’t need a lot to get triggered.

A song.

A thought.

The grey sky.

Or the sun.

I cry when I feel the urge.

One thing I’ve noticed is that there are many different ways of crying.

Different ways, different sorts, different variations.

There’s the crying at the end of a long build-up, the liberating culmination of a captivating story.

There’s the crying that comes from my sore throat and takes away the burning sensation of throbbing pain.

There’s the crying that almost explodes out of me, a short burst, or a series of bursts, like coughing or sneezing.

There’s the crying that is there because I want it to.

There’s the crying that I’d rather not have in a particular moment, but I’m loyal to my allowing so there’s no pushing it back.

There’s silent crying.

And there’s very loud, primal crying.

There’s crying in almost silent sobs.

And there’s crying that makes me shake and twist.

What strikes me is that most of these moments don’t last very long.

Two seconds, three, sometimes five.

Now and then I cry a bit longer, but those extended ones consist of smaller portions of different variations.

Like a complex little symphony of sadness.

I’m turning into a fan of crying.

It feels like honoring life and honoring me.

I’m starting to like me.

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(Photo by @dearseymour, for Unsplash)