An Expensive Cry

I walk myself to the cinema on Mondays only.

Monday is my day off. My invisible day.

But I’m not exactly alone. I carry with me varying sizes of storage boxes, full of tears reserved for Mondays only.

My eyes scroll through the list of Now Showing in search of a film that I believe I can send all of my tears away to in the dark. I can’t possibly carry my storage box of tears back home with me. I refuse to. I don’t have many things to cry about outside the realm of make believe.

For that I’m grateful, however, I’m a very emotional person. And I feel plenty of things more often than not. So when those emotions of many have no place to travel, they need to be posted away somewhere. Somewhere with a different time zone, maybe. If I fail to ship them somewhere, piles of tears begin to take shape behind my eyeballs. Overflowing piles. There’s only so much space in there. They trickle and drip through, eventually they saturate my insides. My spongey insides expand. Piles and files of junk gather together, up and up and up and over the sides.

I’m not a hoarder. I don’t want to be one! So I can’t possibly hoard all of my tears behind my eyes or in my ears forever, and they’re certainly not welcome in the penthouse. The carpet is too expensive up there.

So I take myself to the cinema and I lick and stick a stamp on my tear box and mail them away. But I never receive a reply. I guess it’s just an expensive cry.

The tears and the empty boxes that they leave make me stronger. Stronger until the boxes slowly but surely fill themselves up again for another Monday.