I Don't Cry At Funerals

I don't cry at funerals. 

Watching the lifeless corpse once full of warmth, lying there. People around mourning, sobbing, telling stories of how good of a person the deceased was, how close they were. 

Bullshit. 

I've always felt that it was all bullshit. I mean, what's the point? All those stories, all those memories, those hushed nights, those silent whispers of loving caresses, would you not want to keep it with you? That you'd be the only one knowing, breathing it in, reeling from those memories. 

I can't cry at funerals. 

My tears just won't drop. My face a stricken sheet of plain nothingness. Devoid of emotions, devoid of reactions. 

It's not like I don't hear the hushed whispers, not that I don't notice the disapproving glances. 

It's not like I don't feel the pain. 

People come and hug you, tell you it's okay, that the deceased's in a better place, that God will be there to protect those who pray to Him. I nod, and nod, because nodding is the only thing i can do. 

It's not like my heart doesn't shatter into a million pieces. 

Once, I cried like an unleashed dam on a family funeral. Because crying brought comfort, crying brought relief. It was as if with every tear that is shed, a shine from a piece of memory is taken away, dulling it, dimming it, until the memory no longer hurts. 

I was fucking scared.

I was scared because the numb made me feel like i've lost something important, like I've forgotten something I shouldn't, like I've unmissed something I should be missing. 

Moving on felt like a crime.

So I chose to suffer instead. I suffered the deafening roar of my crashing heart, knowing it's plummeting down a cliff and doing nothing to break its fall. I suffered in silence. Letting the overwhelming voices in my head drown me in the bitterness of their words. I allowed myself to be broken till tiny pieces were all that remains, and be proven wrong when I thought that that'd be the limit, because apparently even those tiny pieces hold the ability to be broken further. The pain made me feel alive, it made each memory strong and vivid, and I drunk all the poison it carried with it if it means I could relish the memory over my head for just one more second. The pain made me feel like I was doing it justice. The pain made me feel less guilty. 

I was a masochist like that.

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