I’m sorry if I ever shamed you for your emotions.
Did I, or did I simply say what was true?
The other day you yourself said you cry-laugh, and I’ve seen you do it — snot and not, triggered, then bravely out-riggered.
Its not that unattractive. In fact it’s actually beautiful — a kind of moistured sentience, a textured perceiving — an emo-glow right in the pupils.
People have always vilified the emotional extremes — or worshiped them: silence, yelling, sulking, telling.
But with you I don’t think of it like that.
You fluctuate, beautifully, like a lighthouse, like a human being, being. You experience what we all do — but compacted, intense — like an espresso machine drooling crema from a double-shot portafilter.
You are acutely and emotively valid, affectional, certified by the heart, authenticated by the amygdalae, bona fide, good faith, unfaked, affectowoobly, then sure-footed.
You are for all of us who know you well our own special emotional banquet.
I think of you as my feeling friend, an affective millionaire, an emotive genius — undone, super fun, on the run, heart flung.
Please keep doing this — feeling — and of course you will, and I will too, and everyone else — blushing, gushing, singing, adjusting, anything but stuffing it, and hushing yourself or anyone else up too much.
Do this — do anything but dodge the central nervous system, or quell it. Do anything but deny, shrivel or flatten your emotions.
Do this. Do what you do best — rise, summit; dive, plummet; roar, soar.
And then finally, always remember that I love you, all of you, and in doing so I love myself, and all of us — all living, reacting, trembling, responding things, the earth’s shuddering skin bags of weeping and whooping, all gorgeous fragile, feeling things.
Modern Soliloquies & Pastiches 