A meditation in the margins, where restoration begins with water.
Tears are not accidents. They are messages.
They arrive unbidden, sometimes silent, sometimes searing. They hold the paradox of being weightless and heavy all at once — molecules and memory, salt and silence. In the architecture of the self, tears are the river between rooms: the basement grief and the attic memory, the hearth’s burn and the writing room’s confession.
A single tear can collapse a century.
They hold unspoken truths. They soften what has hardened. And sometimes, they arrive not from sadness, but from the sacred beauty of recognition — when the soul sees itself, reflected in something once lost and now returned.
Some tears are old. Stored behind the eyes like bottled storms, waiting for the right barometric shift in the heart to be uncorked. Others are fresh, young, made of the now — raw and bewildered, like ink on a just-written page. To taste them is to understand salt in a wound.
There is a quiet restoration that follows a tear. An exhale. The faint echo of clarity. As though something within you, unnamed until now, has been held and seen — finally, fully.
Some call it release. Others, revelation.
But in truth, a tear is the body’s most intimate letter — the kind written when words can no longer hold the feeling. A secret told only to the self.
And what is preservation, if not the patient act of holding something long enough for it to feel safe enough… to weep?
🕯️
