The tears come warm and heavy, and the cross-streets bear your name

What causes us to weep?  One many great mysteries to me is how and why when we feel a particular set of emotions - extreme happiness, loss, frustration, for example - our bodies respond physiologically by pumping saline out of tiny ducts in our eyelids.  We sob and more tears spill over and down our cheeks and sometimes we cannot breathe for such moments.  Ostensibly, we feel better when this phenomenon comes to an end.  Research even tells us that we literally purge ourselves of body toxins when we cry, and that sense of relief is quite real.

But what if you don't feel better?  What if the first tear that falls only creates more of them, and like trying to kill the Hydra by cutting of its head, each tear you wipe away only causes ten more and then twenty more to fall?

As I mentioned earlier, last night was a mess.  Something happened to me beyond the issue with Jamison that I cannot explain.  The art show was stupid, and was really an auction; I may have enjoyed the pieces if we might have looked at them in peace but we couldn't.  More angry still was I to learn this fact; by the time I had conceded to get into the car, going to this event had somehow become an all-important date that he had been looking forward to all week and that I had "ruined" because of my ... whatever you want to call it.  To discover that it was this paltry little insignificant opening attended by a handful of the usual suspects of hipster-ness and pretension drinking PBR out of cans only highlighted the ridiculousness of the whole thing.  I couldn't stay home in my pajamas and watch Lord of the Rings and decompress because of this?  Really?

We decided to stop by a British-style pub for a pint, inside which are photos of various famous pubs of London.  I mentioned to Jamison that in the pubs we drank in there, one of them only had group tables, and it was perfectly acceptable to go and sit at a table as long as there were chairs empty at it.  Last night at Denver's answer to this style of bar, I sat next to one such photo of a place where I had been only a few months ago and suddenly I could scarcely find my breath for the tears of desperate longing and loss I felt welling up and threatening to explode right then.  If I might have willed myself to disappear and found myself suddenly back in that pub, I could have contained it.  Instead I wept silently into my glass of strong cider.  I still don't know why.