“Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.”
- Charlotte Bronte, Jane
I could feel the tears brimming and sloshing in me like water in a glass that is unsteady and and too full.”
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
The beloved and I loved Paul Anka. His crooning and exaggerated emotion was always so fun to listen to. It was fun because she and I were best friends. I’d see her blue eyes light up and her freckled cheeks lift to part her lips and reveal her perfect teeth. It was an example of pure joy. (Joy is a subject I am perplexed by. I think one can have joy without happiness. It’s something I’ll explore.)
I often wondered if the kids of this era thought his music as kitschy as I did or if that projected fervor was sincere - cutting through their hearts and sending their spirits into otherworldliness. Now that I’ve been through heartbreak, I no longer think of his music as kitschy. The first time I listened to Mr. Anka in my solitude, I was victim to said sensationalism. Every word he spoke, every note he forced from his empathetic vocal chords sent me into a 1950s-film-reel-of-a-girl-loosing-it-over-a-teen-idol-like frenzy. I’m not really exaggerating. I realize how pathetic this must seem. Maybe my heartbreak was an exception to the modern rule that snubs its nose at puritanical monogamist ideology, or the suggestion (that has been offered to me) that the emptiness caused by heartbreak can be remedied by “getting laid”.
If sticking to my priggish outlook on sexuality means nursing a broken heart, so be it. I believe it to be a deception and I hope you don’t think you can mend wounds by making more. But is it okay to scream and wail and curl up on the floor and beat your chest and pull your hair to get the sadness out? It certainly doesn’t involve another fragile soul and nobody else has to play a role in your ostentatious act, so go ahead. It’s Time to Cry.