I don’t know what happened to me but suddenly, the emo-era is back and I find myself seeing the most emo things in photographs, and song lyrics, and cloudless skies, and old, empty suitcases,
and this just a few hours ago, wounded fingers.
11/365 My soul is in the sky, originally uploaded by gchic.
[Some note: This blog post is totally unrelated to the photo, except that flying and crying are two things I don’t mind being caught dead doing. So yeah, the connection stops right here.]
Tonight, while cutting potatoes to cook for dinner (yes, I do cook my own dinner contrary to what most of you would think), I cut my left thumb with a kitchen knife. And it was an awfully deep cut because I happened to be cutting with force when the knife slid on my poor thumb.
Now I grew up to believe that the first thing to do when you get a cut is to make it bleed to get as much germs out. So I did, and for the first few seconds, I did it with such bravery I never thought I had. Soon enough, however, I succumbed to the sight of dripping blood and how the cut seemed to *not* stop bleeding.
And so I cried. I let out one nasty, hearty, hysterical cry. While my blood was dripping on my kitchen floor. With bloody tissue papers scattered everywhere from the kitchen floor to the bathroom sink.
If only my camera and tripod were set up, this would’ve been one helluva flickr-moment. And the title would be something that could pass up as suicidal.
But like I said over twitter and FB, while it hurt like crazy, and left me forever traumatized by the sight of potatoes and kitchen knives, I was kinda thankful to have an excuse to cry.
I honestly think I wasn’t just crying over my bloody finger. Now that I think about it, it somehow feels more like being able to find an excuse to release all these pent-up frustrations about life out of my chest. After all, I haven’t cried in a long while. (That is, not counting that night we stopped whatever it was we’re doing out of the blue, sat down, clasped our hands, and prayed.)
I feel awful blogging about this crazy encounter with a kitchen knife. Why does it feel so uncool to admit you’re a crybaby these days? (Isn’t it an accepted fact that crying is a sign of courage anymore?)
At the risk of being branded uncool, I just have to say.. it actually feels good to cry. Even if it costs some trauma, and a deep cut.
Hey, it’s okay to have some drama in your life, come on. You don’t have to pretend you’re tough (and happy, ugh) all the time.
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Also, yes, I have this renewed habit of shifting from “I” to “we” in the middle of paragraphs, just because I think *we* is such a beautiful word.