I profoundly mislike crying for people. I have three reasons for this.
Partially because it always feels somehow spurious, the vague manipulative air, even if I tell them not, even if I speak of it never...something in me knows I was brought to that point, and I feel vaguely unworthy and ill-used over the whole affair.
Partially because the lump in my throat swells, and then becomes yet one more thing I won't talk about without duress, and I have so many of those already, they bury me under drifts of past misdeeds and misapprehensions. It gets harder of an evening to dig out to the surface at all.
Partially because it stains my fur, but that's the least of the reasons.
It's funny...in a very morbid sense. I haven't spoken of this before here, because...for once, it was too personal. My trio of shining loves...one is leaving me, and already refers to what we have in the past tense...one is likely leaving me, and won't--at least yet--speak to me about it...and I am left with one.
And...there may be surfacing problems with that one, as well, and...I don't know what to do about any of it.
Forget the train wreck; someone smuggled a pony nuke aboard, and I'm just another seared shadow on the wall, dim wraith of former vibrance.
I will get better. It's what I do. But for once I'm quite looking forward to my weekly Wednesday separation from the grid. It's one day I don't have to be in world and be responsible for everything I can't find a way to mend...