emo human

          I met you a few weeks ago on the Dublin Bus headed towards Stillorgan. We sat upstairs right in the front, remember? Our heavy wool coats made us look chubby sitting side by side, and I linked my arm in yours.          You didn’t ask me, but I told you about a little boy in the museum who grabbed hold of my pant leg and said, “How old are you, miss?” and I told him I was 30.   “It felt like the truth, but it also felt like a lie.”  The bus made that wide right turn around St. Stephens Green so that you leaned way into me and whispered,  “I can relate.”

Do not cry because you think life is unfair. There is a great ball of uncertainty, wound up tightly like a skein of yarn caught behind your chest. It alters your perception of reality.  Do not cry because you think you aren't good enough to have what you want. What you want seems hazy; not quite animal, mineral, nor vegetable enough to hold in your hand. Yet.  Do not cry because people think you are flailing. They can't see your happiness like you can.  And do not cry because you are alone and unworthy of or unlucky in love. You cannot yet comprehend what's waiting for you out there. And it can all be a little overwhelming, sometimes.

"Hark! The herald angels sing!..." comes tumbling out of my mouth like a yawn would; involuntarily and with great ease.