What It's Like to Cry

So, there's something peculiar I've noticed about aging: With each year that passes, I shed tears more easily, particularly at fictional works. Even stories that end on a fundamentally hopeful note, I get choked up and find myself unable to continue, too distraught over how perfectly imperfect the world is and how that fact is eerily represented in works of fantasy.

Change.

Scary though it may be, is more sad than anything in this regard. It represents an inability to simply stop. It highlights our total lack of control over the universe around us. Old friendships fade and new ones replace them; fires sputter and die, to be reborn elsewhere; and like Theseus' ship, our entire lives are slowly recrafted over time, often in unpredictable and massive ways. What's sad is not that the world around us is in flux, but rather, that we cannot, even for a moment, return to a previous time by any means except our memories.

This is especially cruel when our perceived sense of well-being, hope, and happiness was greater in our memories than it remains in the present.
To walk down the road and find the most amazing flower that smelled of spring breeze and the essence of life itself, only to walk away and be unable to remember that scent later, but also unable to turn around and revisit it.

Our linear path forward is one filled with regret and longing. And all I can do is sit here and cry my eyes out for the feelings of remorse others have over the swift flow of time, because I cannot shed tears for my own position in the river.

So what's causing me to cry like this? I know I haven't grown up enough to suddenly be in touch with the sorrow that everyone else in the world (real or otherwise) feel. Maybe it's finally catching up with me, and my need to cry about forlorn happenings is being satisfied through fantasy so that I don't have to feel guilty for deriving my emotional needs from the real pain of others.

And yet... I can't help but continue to take part in stories that offer no happy ending and are riddled with pain and sadness. Is that my body's way of telling me I need to empathize more?

Just another thought for another day.