It doesn’t always have to be about eerie silences and terrified nails dragging across skin and anxiety stuck to the back of your throat.
It doesn’t always have to be about muted blue light, in the form of tangible sadness, seeping into a dark room.
It’s not always the feeling of drowning and fleeting images of an omnipresent something.
The tears aren’t always produced by a sudden onslaught of overwhelming grief.
You don’t always have to find yourself lying on the ground feeling crushing loneliness paired with hateful phrases running through your head.
Sometimes it can be about fighting a smile, one so wide that it threatens to crack your lips, so hard your cheeks ache.
It can be about the softness of someone’s hand, or the kindness in their eyes, or the comfort of their presence.
You can be reading a book listening to washed out piano and dancing guitars with the fireplace going on a snowy evening.
It can be waking up and feeling a pleasant sleepiness lingering beneath your eyes, the comforting evidence of a good night’s sleep.
The images can be of huge meadows, spanning out for miles in every direction, filled with nothing but small wildflowers and soft grass.
The tears can be ones of overwhelming relief.
The ache can be lifted sometimes, even if just for a moment or two.
It’s still something.
Try to make it count.