Who Knows Why


Who knows.

Who knows why you cried today.

See, you know it’s time to pack up the laptop and call it a day when you find yourself crying in a coffee shop, torpedoed by a bloody song that somehow snuck into your iTunes shuffle mix.

You would have been fine if the coffee shop’s wifi had just been working because you’d have been listening to a nice safe Spotify playlist—nothing jumping out to surprise you. No ambushes. No college flashback: sitting in a dark performance hall on a blind date with some girl. She was nice, wasn’t she? You think so. Did you ever go out with her again? You don’t think so; you can’t remember. There wasn’t anything romantic for you. So why this visceral reaction to this song? A song you heard over ten years ago.

Who knows? Maybe it was just the right blend of morose sky spitting a pall of mist onto the window in front of you while strangers—miles away through the half-inch of glass—trotted past, heads down, lost in their own worlds. Maybe it was the buffer of your earbuds—those walls between you and the girls sitting one table over, like they were wallflowers, a graceful distracted painting and nothing else.

Maybe it was just the reminder that you used to believe in a world where lovers didn’t leave, where you still held hands and kissed someone on the forehead goodnight and fell asleep smelling the ghost of their perfume.

Or maybe you’ve spent too much time on the edge of emotion, walking that tightrope between manic and sane, toeing Faust’s line, wandering gray, open roads tearing at the soil of yesterday’s long-forgotten harvest.

Who knows?

Who knows why you cried today.



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