Moved

I am moved by many things. At the risk of sounding corny (and psychotic), I find it almost soothing to admit that I often catch myself in tears. Not the kind of cry that leaves you breathless and dehydrated, but the cry that induces blurry vision for a few seconds ~ before you tilt your head back and blink away any proof of being moved. Sometimes I am moved in a good way, but not always.

Helen once told me how strong she thought I was. How I am able to put into words exactly how I feel (and sometimes how she feels), accept it, and move on. Such strength has come with growth. With maturation, I have allowed myself to shed insecurities inherited from a youthful version of myself. I have imbibed a loving gaze upon the scars of my mistakes, and have allowed myself to turn the page. I am always eager to give myself peace of mind lest I be one to hurt.

But I cannot always be so strong (though I dared not remind her of this, and all of the times she has seen me in tears, face buried in pillow, body covered by sheets). Sometimes I cannot put into words what I feel, sometimes I am speechless, and sometimes I refuse to accept what is real. I am fragile, impatient, stubborn, and vulnerable (not only to my own passing whims, but those of others as well), characteristics inherent to my own individual composition.

And during these moments when I do not consider myself to be as strong as I can be, I am moved. My body physically refuses to hold back, and becomes willing to divulge the blended emotions that run through my mind in the form of translucent liquid ~ seeping through the corners of my eyes. You’d never know it. I hide it well.