I sat on the edge of my bed tonight. With my hands stilled perfectly on my lap, my legs couldn't stop bouncing, and as well as my mind — they couldn't stop reeling, desperately seeking for its end.

But then I stumbled upon the thoughts of crying.

Crying.

One of the honest emotions a human-being could ever shown. Simultaneously, one of the most emotions human tried to suppress.

"But to cry is to be vulnerable,"

"To be vulnerable reduced you into a weak individual,"

"Tears are too messy to shed."

Like that one time when the urge to cry is bubbling out of you because it felt like the world is crumbling beneath your feet gradually, and you don't know what else is there to safe all at once.

Like that one time when the tears fell down and wet your cheeks quietly, because even blinking it back is suddenly felt like another whole of a plate tossed your way — so you wiped it off. Roughly.

And that one time when the thought of crying has left your mind long before you even noticed… it became so foreign, you couldn't even shed them.

Until it came one ordinary Tuesday where I was asked, "When you cry, do you feel week?" It hits home. To the point I couldn't fathom the words to answer it. My heart was at a war — to nod and to say,

"Yes, I do. I feel like the weakest person on Earth with tears as my loudest evidence of my pain when everybody else's stayed the quietest."

But then again… a wholesome of thought about crying struck me.

Perhaps, crying aren't going to reduced you from the kind of person you are before.

Perhaps, crying doesn't always mean you're weak — it could be the other way around.

Why?

Because when you cry, all the armors you have been hiding from behind starts to crumble, and you let it.

You let yourself be.

You let yourself feel.

You let it fazed you.

You let it stole all the air out of your lungs for mere seconds and thinks: yes, it hurt me. It numbed me, to the point I couldn't bring myself to get out of my bed. It rooted in my head, to the point where it looped like a broken record until the image of it burns vividly on the back of my mind.

You let it happen, because of how much some things could mean to you.

Because of how big it had become, it won't fit deep within your chest anymore.

It explodes. It burns. Then it beats, syncing with your heart after it settles.

The simple act of crying, unexpectedly harbored such bravery when you let it. When you stopped figuring it out —after the threads tangling one with another, forming a tight knot you forgot how to loose it — because you learned that not every piece should be shouldered altogether.

You learned that sometimes, some things happen not meant for you to understand. They just meant for you to feel.

So, maybe, crying isn't something we had grown to know as weakness —

Maybe it is bravery on its purest, barest form.