It is a bizarre thing.

Crying.

Emotions; the trigger.

Grief. Happiness.

A door with pressure applied.

One side filling with water.

Filling and filling.

The longer it fills, the harder the door is.

To open.

That is why most women open it:

Immediately.

And the tears are let loose.

To dry up sooner. Rather than cry more later.

But X is a strange woman.

No. Not woman. Not girl.

Young woman.

Yes. X is a strange young woman.

Foolish as most.

To write such things.

Admit such things.

But write them anyway.

X is a strange young woman.

X does not open the door.

Instead, X locks it up.

Keeps it shut.

Stacks random, heavy objects against it.

Nails it down with planks of wood.

And fills the gaps with super glue.

To keep the water from slipping through.

So it fills.

Fills up on the other side.

The other side of the door, that is.

With unmentionable things.

Things that have hurt X the most.

Things that have loved X the most.

Things that threaten to break down the door.

But don't.

Instead, these things fill up.

Higher and higher.

Until it gets too high.

And the pressure is worse.

Building. Building.

Not a structure, but the rise.

And X is strange enough to mention that.

But does not care and types it nonetheless.

It does not change the fact that it is building!

Building. Building.

Filling up to the top.

No more room left.

No space.

No air.

None.

...

..

.

..

...

And.

Then...

it..........

SHATTERS.

.B.r.e.a.k.s.

And X falls.

Falls, falls, falls, falls, falls.

FALLS!

Like leaves in Autumn.

Or Fall.

Autumn and Fall.

The two are the same, really.

Same. But different.

There is no crashing, only constant...

Falling.

And that is all.

All X is left to. Left with.

No way to describe.

Such overwhelming.

Grief. Happiness.

That strikes down on X for no reason.

Other than a feeling:

...Boredom...

The barrage of water crashes.

Pressing against X.

Until X drowns.

Yet X still breathes.

Drowns and breathes.

From the emotions.

The emotions that filled that door.

Caused by one feeling.

One mood that breaks.

That door down so easily.

And then it stops.

The crying ceases.

And the door is soon fixed.

To close up that empty passage.

So that it can break all over again.

...X is left with no moral now.

Just a discovery.

X finally knows what it means to cry.

Cry without a reason.

Without the trigger.

And that is a bizarre thing.