In Search for Lost TIme

     It seems like a cultural bias that you are suppose to cry when something bad happens, when you lose a loved one, when you get fired from your job, when you break up a relationship. If you don't cry then you don't let out grief and if you don't let out grief then obviously you aren't human right? I find that to be far too economic from the truth. There is another expression that is not delved in deeply enough and perhaps its because it is less expected or people feel that it is wrong, but nevertheless it is still one of the many means in which the feeling of despair is communicated through.
     If you've ever lost a loved one you can resonate there are deep delves of grief and crying is one medium in which it is shown through but I find a more common, less explored, and a great taboo to feel nothing. No tears, no swelling, no hurt stomach just a confusion of what to do, what to say, how to react. All that is shown is a distant hole in your heart that you know can never be mended, replaced, or changed, you could cover it up like putting a painting over a big, unerasable mark on the wall, all the while knowing that if you ever knocked it over, intentionally or accidentally the mark would always show as a constant reminder of what was lost.
     For a long time I would go to sleep very late, in the mingles before I would close my eyes for a second as if to denounce the compartment I was on but later rise up wide eyed and scarcely tired before remitting to the exact same cycle. And then while heading toward my bed I would set my intent on sleeping when only just taking a nap which when I would wake up again I would routinely off my already closed light, and put my book back on its already supposed shelf, and take my glasses off in its predetermined manner. And while I would finally mater long enough to sleep I would think about the stories I read and the facts I learned and see that my digesting would take an odd twist to pose myself as the head of the novel the trailed parent of an unnamed spouse, the neighbor to a rather rich, rather peculiar fellow, and of course the unformed sailor who sought revenge against a whale.
     It astonishes me to find myself in a delicate state of darkness in which I could restlessly apply myself in the inkling of dark before light where I would be participating in terribly abnormal ways. I feel that after the sudden rectitude in which I had gone through I had known a quench for something I couldn't put words to and as so I would perform in such erratic movements. And thus I would know that I was not in search for the moral disbelief I lead myself to think but rather in search of lost time.