Crying, Books, and Seeing Like a Child Again

I really dislike crying.

Maybe it's because I'm no good at it. I find crying to be a talent, a skill I wasn't blessed to have. So instead of having a good cry every now and then, I end up with a pounding headache and a throat that feels like it's closed in on itself. I get the unpleasant side effects of crying, without releasing any tension through tears. If anything, I've just built the tension up even more.

I think laughter is the only way to let the tension out of me. I laugh about the fact that I want to cry, and about the fact that I'm physically unable to. I laugh at the strength of my eyelids to keep the tears contained. I laugh at how stupid it is that I can't cry. I laugh at how much I hate crying.

Sometimes I also really dislike books.

That feeling usually comes from a really good book that pushes me emotionally, and then taunts me for not being able to show it. I just finished reading The Book Thief this afternoon, and at one point, I wanted to cry so badly for the girl in the story. Tears welled up in my eyes, wanting desperately to roll sympathetically down my cheek. I felt the anguish the girl felt, but I could do nothing but laugh at my headache to show the emotion. That made me even more sad, and all I could do was smile about it.

But let me tell you, this book was worth the emotional confusion. I loved the unique writing, and the girl, the main character, was so real to me. I wished I could go back to being 11 and thinking, seeing, describing so creatively. To see things as a child does, and then to be able to put words to it as a child - and then to continue to do that as an adult, what a gift that would be. I'm pretty good with words in general, I like to think. But when the time comes for it, I feel I often lose the ability to describe things beyond their basic appearance.

I was walking home from the gym yesterday, as the sun went down. I've seen some absolutely brilliant sunsets this summer, and yesterday, I thought a little about the beauty I was seeing. I realized, though, that I'm rather opposite of other people. Where some can wax poetic in the midst of Nature's beauty, I become silent, and even my ever-spinning mind quiets down. I view the scene with a definite appreciation for what I'm seeing, but no words make their way to me. It's like I know I can never give the sight enough words to truly acknowledge what I saw. Words let me down, so I shoo them away.

Maybe there's something about how children combine all the senses together when they speak that makes their descriptions so much better. Flowers smell like sunshine. Watermelon tastes of coolness. Grass feels like laughter. Things and emotions tangle up and twist into each other, one no different from the other.

And then it's beaten out of us, as we learn to compartmentalize these different properties. Tangible objects are tangible objects. Emotions are abstract - they can't be tasted, smelled, or touched. But why not? Objects and activities become so much more real in description when we describe them as we actually experience them. Emotions, feelings, actions - all these things are necessary parts of our experiences, that of course chocolate can taste like happiness and water sings the sound of Summer. Every Spring, I smell track season in the freshly cut grass. It makes the season, and the grass, that much more real to me.

That's the beauty of words - they can breathe life into moments another person didn't experience, and into inanimate objects. I loved the book for its exploration into the power or words - good or bad. The great destructive force and the wondrous building strength words can have.

And that's why I sometimes I dislike books. Because the words can do so much to me; they move me, they ask me to do more or be more, and sometimes they can even make me almost cry. And I really dislike crying.