A knot in my throat

When something goes wrong, doesn’t meet expectation, I always like to think it’s for my own good. On the whole it usually is.

And then, every so often, a foiled hope kicks you in the shin, right there in the middle where it has most impact.

Nobody has died, nobody has been taken ill. Yet, for the last 20 hours or so I can’t stop crying. Not crying as in sobbing your heart out; crying as in tears, involuntarily, dripping down my face. Like a faulty tap I can’t switch off. Even going into public places doesn’t help. They still keep falling.

Adults, of course, find it embarrassing and will look away. Children, not yet immune to the human cause, will give me a knowing smile.

Most of my friends have hardened themselves against disappointment; maybe because they don’t expect anything else. It’s an art I still have to master and probably never will.

Yet, give me a real crisis, and it’s been confirmed by everyone who knows me, I’ll be the last to shoot myself – if at all.

U