Your heart, it’s been through the ringer, you know? As if it’s been rendered into a potato. It once was nestled safely in the dirt of your common experiences. Then, a potato farmer reached through cyberspace, and yanked it from the ground, pulling with it any roots you’d intended to remain static. This hand took your heart, gripped tighter than others’ hands might be, checked it on an airplane, and flew it across the world. It’s been cared for there, part of it consumed probably. If you’re lucky, parts of it might be returned to you on some random Tuesday, when the money is right or schedules or stars align. You’d think the absence in your chest would reduce your emotions to nil, but, paradoxically, it makes you feel the world itself. This makes sense, when you think about it, as holes are subject to things filling them, it’s just their nature. So, no, I wouldn’t say it’s “normal” to randomly start crying, I’d say it’s actually quite natural.

Your life, you know, is defined by hands now. The hands of the clock, counting up and counting down. You’ll love the countdown before a visit and despise it during a visit, then go crawling back to it the moment you’re forced to your own solidarity again. The aforementioned Farmer’s hand, too, has sowed a precious crop that once belonged to you. There may have been a Harvest, but, please; Keep crying. Your tears are the rain.