“It’s just my heart,” I thought as I cried. I’m not sure if I was diminishing or condoning the sadness both dripping from and enveloping me, like that overwhelming sauna room steam that makes it hard to breathe.
“No it can’t be my heart,” I reasoned becoming philosophical, “because the heart doesn’t really break, does it? Maybe this is something close to my heart, close enough for me to mistake for the real thing. Something that feels pain and sorrow and sadness so strong it casts a shadow on the heart. But no, this is not my heart. For surely the heart only knows love…and this hurts like hell.”
Either way it doesn’t matter. I cry at work. I cry on the way home from work. And I cry in my hotel, which is also my home. I make chai tea with soy milk, break open the homemade Thanksgiving cookies mailed to me in this godforsaken town, and begin to write.