by dana quell

	i want to cry.  i won't of course- that's simply not who i am.  i think
if i had turned out to be someone other than me, i might be crying right now.  
but i'm not.  i'm me.  and i can't cry.  i can shout and yell and grumble and 
laugh and do anything else i'd want to not do, except i can't cry.
	sometimes, when it's so cold outside that even i admit that it's cold, 
my eyes tear up.  that is not crying.  crying is the expression of human 
emotion, complex and simple all at one time.  the sun shining when it's raining 
outside.  an evil smile that sucks your soul down to the bowels of hell and 
takes your breath away with its beauty at the same time.  that is crying.
	right now, it feels like the world i thought i knew has fallen apart, 
like a cheap hollywood set from the 1930's that has run past its usefulness.  
the cardboard, the paint, and the characters are all dead and rotting in my 
hollywood world and i have to accept it.  except i can't.  just like i can't 
	there was a time, once, when i could cry.  it was a long, long time ago 
and i barely remember it.  sometimes i remember fragments of pure detail- it's 
almost like i'm reliving it again.  except when i come out of the memory, i 
can't remember what it was.  oh, sure, i sometimes remember a flash of red 
here, a smattering of hazel there, but almost always the only thing i remember 
is that i was crying.  the reason why is never remembered.
	now, though, that everything has been taken away from me and i have 
nothing in this world left to cling on to- now that i have a reason to cry- i 
can't.  the road before me looks familiar as familiar as the one i was just on, 
but then all roads look pretty much the same.  this one is much more difficult.  
on this one, i need to cry or i'll come to the end sooner than i would like.
	sighing, i scribble a note in my illegible handwriting and look down 
through the window at the 27 floor drop.  i know i've come to the end.
	i want to cry.