heat

you have these moments where you're just overwhelmed and all the heat just presses against your face too, too, too much. Standing on the station looking down below me, the signs luridly ugly, all the colors too bright and lines crumpling and bending sharply when they should be straight.

I leaned weakly on the rail overcome with emotion, and the man standing next to me edged a little too close, which made me even more paranoid that I'd burst out into a wrinkled baby face. But then the tears start welling up on the wrinkles and dips of your eyes, and you feel the first twisting in your chest, and no battle against it will win the war before finally, you're lost, and it's the torturous moments inbetween losing and hoping to win that you're standing there with all your might trying not to explode into sobs in public. The whimpers came quickly, not too loud, but bothersome. People moved away. There was no wind to quiet it. every bad memorie balled up into one inside you now, even those dark, dark, dark ones kept hidden so far away you can never talk about them except in rare instances, revenge of your mind against every rational effort at suppression. I don't care what's good or bad for me to think, I'm just gonna feel the way I feel!

it took me a few blinks to realize that I wasn't the one crying, to my shock. it was the man, sobbing, and he didn't strike me as someone who would do that sort of thing. he was old, tough, leathery, in a tank top and tough guy old school tattoos on his arm. my mind took another moment to register this. children cry. women cry. but not guys who look like my dad, guys who look like they can fix anything that moves or stays put. men like that don't do that kind of thing, and never in public, and if they do, it just throws all your cultural meters off whack, and you don't know whether to be empathetic or politely silent. this man was crying next to me, small shiny tears rolling down his cheeks, and it was very simple for me to imagine myself pressing my thumbs against his temples and pulling his adult mask off and seeing the very small, hurt boy underneath.

but why should children be the only ones who can feel?

and i turned away and thought again. no, adults can feel too, especially men like that. i looked away from him at the hazy buildings in the distance, so cloudy and pale, unreal next to this very, very real man. we were both embarrassed by each other, and remembering sharp, early memories that we thought we had put away. (can you really put away something from a time when everything was so uncontrollably vital and real? isn't that what being a grown-up is all about? reigning things in, slowing down, dulling the colors and straightening out the flowers so you don't go crazy and spin out of control?)