The Living and The Dead.

The first time I cried in my life. My actual life. Not because I didn't want to put on my shoes. Not because I was hungry, or because I did not like the tv show that was on that day. Nor any other reason one does in their childhood life. I was barely twelve and I sank to the floor. Huddled up, knees to my chest. Asking, no begging for more. Praying to the god that all good Christians claim exists. Asking him why he would put me through this test. Why all my thoughts and feelings clattered to the ground. Why my father's kidneys shattered, nowhere to be found. Why I could feel his pain. Why he died in vain. You see, some might find this weird, but the day he died, I shed no tears. On May 5th of 2021, I searched for tears but there were none. It wasn't until his funeral where I cried. Everyone in that room was sobbing, so I sobbed. It felt wrong. They all felt robbed and I felt wrong. The second time I really truly broke down was for a girl I thought was the love of my life. She thought her parents would separate us, and I thought I would lose her. All because they simply could not accept that their child had fallen for another girl. I screamed and I curled. I dreamt and I hurled. That night was a roller coaster. Yes, it was. It lives in my memories. Plays on repeat for hours. It does. That same year his mother died. My perfect, perfect grandmother passed away. Yet, I had no feelings to display. When the funeral came, I did not weep. I did not wallow. I sat there and I swallowed. I watched as everyone in that room did what I could not. Sad, alone, upset, depressed. All those feelings they felt that could reach me. Could not touch me. Could not FEEL me. I never searched for tears that day. Not one. I knew in my heart that tears for those who are alive are some, and tears for those who have died are none. Sometimes I fear there may be something wrong with me. My mind, my soul. Something that keeps me heartless. Something that stops me from being whole. My body, my eyes write lines for the ones who participate in the activity of life. My emotions climb to the tip tops of mountains and let the drip drops fall for once and all, but only that are living. What tragedy is it to breathe? What brutality is it to believe? Why, do I lack the emotion that comes to others so easily? Why is my strategy for grieving non-existent where theirs is present? Why cry for those who have survived but not for those who have died? Why not?