I cannot cry, so my keystrokes fall as my tears


Eva Harshman

A day where I felt the sunlight burst through my barrier

I can laugh and I can yell, but I cannot cry.

When I am in public, I subdue any sensitive emotions with my sarcastic smirk and horrible humor. Even most of my closest friends have yet to see tears trickle down my cheeks. Even when my despair attempts to spill over, I allow my eyes to drown in the pools in order to hold up such a lying personality. I try to put on an almost invulnerable facade; however, I am unsure whether I am trying to convince others or myself of this fallacy.

From the horribly convincing outside, I seem as though I am just an unemotional, judgemental, and skeptical person. When watching a tragic scene in a film, I can’t help but interject with some awful and poorly-attempted joke. Truly, this is just to show that I have not fallen somber in response to such a ridiculously dramatized situation.

My tears cannot stain the paper, but the letters I type can be implanted in an even more permanent form. Wherever I am, as long as it is not the words pouring from my own mouth and swirling around another person, I am more than willing to cry. My tears pound the keys, taking flight into the sky in the form of text messages, Instagram posts, and most importantly, stories on The Central Trend.

And now, not just the people within my household have seen me cry.

The whole world can.

Somehow, this is almost a comfort to me. Anonymous spectators can be reaching into my heart without even knowing who I am, and my best friends can snap a picture of a side of me they’ve never seen before. The best part is, I don’t have to be talking to anyone but myself in order to publish my innermost thoughts.

Anonymous spectators can be reaching into my heart without even knowing who I am, while my best friends can snap a picture of a side of me they’ve never seen before.”

I can finally flip myself inside out without having to move my tongue. I can be honest with someone while only making eye contact with the dim glow of my Chromebook screen and without hearing the uncomfortable pity in their voice. I can walk around inside my iron shell, but with brief glimpses of transparency when the sunlight hits it correctly.

The sunlight, while short-lived, warms me instantly. Though naturally, the fear of expressing myself lingers in the back of my mind, the rays mostly shoot down the shadows. I don’t often feel the need for the warmth, but when I get too cold, it is the perfect refresh.

I am thankful for this outlet—I can now spill out any feelings I have in a dignified and well-thought-out manner rather than sputtering out a vague and altered version that is unbeneficial to myself. My fingers flow much more smoothly than any conversation I have, and the words I can choose illustrate anything I need to express with precision.

Truly, my breakdowns are in em-dashes and metaphors, and my heartbreak is in fragments. This is the only way I know how to cry, and I am so thankful that I have discovered it.