one day when i was a child, crying, my parents told me that i would run out of tears. there is a set amount of tears somewhere in your head, they explained, and if i wasn't careful they would run out before i got old enough to cry about anything significant. for a while, i wondered if it would be the last time every time i cried; if i would stop mid sob some day, unable to produce any more tears and lie there hiccuping and heaving.

i was in a mood earlier. one of those moods so dark and strange it feels almost solid inside of you. i sat recalling an instance with someone long ago; a rare moment of honesty and vulnerability. woefully, my compatriot called himself a misogynist and rambled on about other things. it wasn't a conversation as much as it was like sitting at the kitchen table with a glass i had somehow knocked over, watching the contents drip onto the floor.

sometimes i think i might like to write a short story or something along those lines, but i'm too afraid to say anything about anyone other than myself. i don't feel qualified to make a statement about the actions and motivations of others, even if it's just somebody i made up. and even i if i did invent characters, i would probably find myself apologizing for them the way i make excuses for everyone i know.