A Love Letter to Women

Dear Women,

Why do I love you so much?

Is it your hair, so perfectly arranged, the seemingly inconspicuous split ends expertly manicured during periods of idle time?

Is it your skin that most softly smooth surface, impossible to replicate by Man, though much sought after; admired and moisturised?

Is it your eyes within which one is transported outward into orbit; this innocuous, unimportant world forgotten forever?

Is it your scent, only rivalled by the colourful blooms of nature; intoxicating; producing a drug-like swoon without the attendant withdrawal of a life-long junkie?

Is it your hands, finely designed, tapered, just so? Gently strong, throttling the world; a world who refuses to relinquish the hold of Man.

Is it the swoop of the nape of your long neck; so sensitive to the advances of us apes; sought after and acquired only through tenderness?

Is it the way you look before you’re all made up for the day; only sweat pants and t-shirt, your hair splayed out in all directions or procured into a bun? This is you at your most beautiful – did you know that?

Did you know all the things that Men think about you? You probably only focus on the crass and juvenile because that’s the most overt and damaging. Those leering stares looking down into your body, past your soul, into only the private most intimate parts of yourself – the remnants of a lost past where Men would take what they want; a time when Women were chattel, property to be traded and dealt like a piece of coal or a goat; where the Men would sit and talk together, the fathers, brothers, uncles and grandfathers organising a marriage, passing off girls, too young to know, passing them off to be wed, no, bought, by a wealthy landholder, the girl’s feelings be damned. No, this is not what I’m talking about. Did you know that Men think of you as the one truly great thing in this world? We hide this thought behind bullshit masculine bravado – beer drinking, cat-calls, come-ons, sexual remarks and bromances, pretending to love our fellow Man without even admitting to the overt homoeroticism.

You are the most beautiful living thing on Earth, but this is already known. Men, we know this, we know this in our core. I know this in my deepest intrinsic understanding of the Universe; as a part of the fabric of the life we live. The word, ‘Woman’ is synonymous with all the beauty and love in the world today. You probably wonder then, why still you have to go to the public bathrooms in twos and walking at night in threes. Why as Men do we continue to treat you like second-class citizens when we know, deep down unconsciously, without saying because we are not smart enough or articulate enough to say clearly or even admit. That’s the problem: the admitting. I think, we know…we know that you are far superior in every way not just that which we admire from afar: that beauty again. That beauty that seems to override all else, everything that makes you, You. everything that distinguishes you from Us – Man. The weakest link in this terrible, death-filled void we call Earth. It’s you, Women that softens the sharp edges of Life, that pillows the falls we have, the tumbling that occurs everyday because of the nature of life and our bad decisions. It’s you that brings a cliche into being like, You Are The Sunshine Of My Life, the Love Of My Life, the one thing, the ONE THING I could never live without no matter how much money I have, or shit that clogs up the arteries of my life.

So, do you understand now? You will go about your life but still encounter us, Men, the ones who make you forget all that I have said because that’s the nature of us. I say this next thing however without false modesty but, I’m not like them, this is why I have written this, and to some extent, know the truth. The truth that’s writ large in the small glances, the knowing nods and subtle tilts of the head.

You are the source of Life.

You are…life.

…If Only In My Dreams

They awoke together with the distinct thought that the other had been in their dreams.

“Hey, I had this dream.” They began at the very same moment.

They looked at each other and laughed the laugh of mutual love and comfort.

“You go first,” he suggested.

“Some of it is disappearing with the morning dew drops but here’s what I remember: I was standing on a hill, surrounded by acres and acres of lush, verdant grassland. The light breeze allowed the blades of grass to bend politely at the waist, honouring me with their presence. Their wonderful, earthy scent drifted up to me, filling me with love. But, I don’t know exactly where this love was coming from. Because as I was standing there, there was a feeling in my stomach that I had lost something very, very precious to me, and I was standing here on this hill searching for it. I looked up at the sky and saw that the clouds were lowering, as if they would drop down on my head if I didn’t move out of the way. I looked around and saw nothing. There was something missing; something that upset me very much. Was it you? I don’t know. But let me get back to the story.

I couldn’t see anything all around me; the fields were nothing but a stretch of green in all directions. I began to walk in the direction of the setting sun, because I thought that it was a better direction than no direction at all. Where the sun touched the horizon, the clouds descended, smearing streaks of colour across the greying canvas. It was mesmerizing but also terrifying; it felt like the end of something; like the ultimate finality. As I walked, the wind whipped at my skin with its cold tendrils. I felt alone. Helpless. After what seemed to be an indeterminate amount of time I began to make out shapes in the distance. There was the shape of a man, a tall man walking bolt upright, with a sword in his right hand. His sword was streaked red with blood and his business suit crusted in the same crimson substance. His face was in darkness, unrecognisable and foreign. But comfort swelled my heart as he came closer and closer; he was my hero, here to save me from all the bad things. When he was within arm’s length I reached out my hand to him but as I touched his shoulder, the figure disappeared. Here one second, gone the next. I cried then and wept for the loss of my soul. But as a wept I felt a hand on my shoulder, a had not unlike yours,” she paused to enfold his hand in hers, “and you said, ‘Don’t cry. It’s just nature. That’s what happens sometimes. Life and death. All things are born, they live and they move on to death. Please don’t mourn that which has to be.’ I looked up and he too disappeared from me. I again felt like I had lost a little part of me, but his words comforted me nonetheless.

At this point the clouds had completed their hostile takeover and the darkness became all-consuming. The moonlight showed me that I existed in a world with light, I wasn’t lost in a deep, dark pit of despair. The breeze had lightened and brought with it the faint wisps of a mellifluous melody played by a distant violin. I couldn’t make out the tune but it was something that I had heard before; something I thought I should know somehow. Then I heard the faint sounds of singing and the melody became clearer. The words seared my brain because I finally recognised the song and could distinctly hear the words. The words that would torture me for the rest of my life, my dear:

Christmas Eve will find me

Where the love light gleams

I’ll be home for Christmas

If only in my dreams.

My love it was of you that I dreamed last night. It was of you that I have been dreaming of all this time…ever since that day. That day in December when I got that telegram in the mail from the Army. They held a full military service and gave me a flag, folded in the shape of a triangle. I still see you sometimes around the house and mistakenly speak to you when I think you’re in the next room. This morning I woke up from this dream, hearing your voice, saying I shouldn’t cry but…”

She sat and wept, alone in her bed, the sun reaching through the drawn shades dappling her white bedspread with gold. She didn’t notice. She never does.

Meeting People Is Easy

“We walk through life scared shitless of disturbing the calm waters of the world. But guess what. The world ain’t calm, dipshit!”

He laughed mirthlessly. A true cynic, too enamoured of doubt and pessimism to experience anything else.

“We try to blend in, be a part, try not to draw attention to ourselves. Just wait for others to notice like, ‘Look at me, look at me, please!’ It’s pathetic. Basically, everyone is a pussy to some degree.”

“You know, you’re full of shit sometimes.”

“Trust me, I’m totally right. When’s the last time you wandered outside the cage of normalcy?”

“All the time, man. I mean…”

“Listen, man, if a girl walked in this bar right now and looked at you, you’d be paralysed by fear and anxiety. You’d shit a brick and bury your head in the drink. Trust me, I been there. And guess what, WE STILL HERE!”

“You’re wrong. I’ll prove it to you. Next girl that does exactly that, I’ll get up from my seat and go talk to her. I may not close, but I’ll do anything right now to prove that you’re FULL. OF. SHIT.”

“Whatever, buddy. I’m waiting.”

The drinks flowed for the next 45 minutes as our two protagonists waited for the next unfortunate woman to show even a modicum of interest.

“I’m gonna bounce after the next round.”

“But she ain’t here yet.”

“Frank, she ain’t coming…”

At that moment Ray locked eyes with a not-so-young woman seated adjacent to him, further up the bar. His drink remained motionless, caught in midair by the electricity of her look.

His friend just grunted in approval: “There you go, bro.”

Ray lowered his unsipped beer, slipped off the barstool and made his way over to the woman. He swayed and stumbled as he walked but in his head, it felt like he was watching this play out through someone else’s eyes.

“Hi,” he slurred as he plonked down next to her.

“Hi, yourself.” There was a playfulness to how she spoke. A youthful vitality that belied her impending middle age.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Gin and tonic. You might say I’m old fashioned.”

“You don’t look old fashioned.”

“Well aren’t you just the charmer,” her eyes lit up in drunken mirth. This was going well so far. “What about you, cowboy?”

“Guiness. It’s my favourite poison…well apart from some well-aged whiskey of course. But you know, it’s a bit pricey sometimes. Worth it, but pricey.”

“I know what you mean, I really love Johnny Blue. I mean looove!”

“Yeah me too, I bought a bottle once and, like, just blitzed it one evening with my buddy over there.”

“He seems lonely.”

“Nah. He’s just an asshole.” She laughed then; a sound forged out of decades of drinking, laughing and smoking.

There was an ease between them that Ray immediately recognised as mutual attraction. Two possibly lonely old souls out searching for a semblance of human connection in a technologically connected world. Unlike many cynical luddites his age, Ray was more than happy to participate in the various social media platforms. He even created a profile for himself on Tinder after his divorce. Technically his account was still open even though he hadn’t been back in months. She drained the rest of her drink as he reached the dregs of his.

“Want to join me outside for a smoke?”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

Ray really loved smoking outdoors at night. There was something about the cool night air that transformed the acrid stench of burnt tobacco into something pleasurable. He knew that he was associating night-time smoking with good times; he also knew that tonight could be one of them. They puffed away together in silence, each preoccupied with what to say next, not wanting to rush anything; not wanting to push too hard and chase the other one away. Finally she broke the silence.

“My name’s, Heather. What’s yours?”

“Raymond…well, Ray I guess. No one really calls me, ‘Raymond’.”

“Nice to meet you, Raymond.”

He just smiled.

Two People – Part 2

They walked to her house after her tentative invitation back at the duck pond. They spoke of their lives in roundabout ways, tacitly avoiding anything even resembled real life. They walked and felt young again. Like the first time they met that other one. With that wonderful, glowing feeling in their belly, growing steadily, to reach its full maturity in her bedroom.

They reached her two-storey mini-mansion, with a modern style that suggested it was a recent development. Nerves and anticipation made it hard to think (or breathe).

“Come on, let’s not waste time. We don’t have much of it.”

She led him and Bailey through the pale double doors, the ceiling suddenly disappearing into the void above their heads with the winding staircase twisting behind an ornate chandelier. He couldn’t figure out if his breathlessness was due to the woman beside him or the unexpected beauty of her place. The place she shared with her husband. He tried blocking this thought from his mind but the house felt cloyingly close; it felt alive with the shared history of a family. His own moral boundaries began to shift and tear away from his consciousness like a bandage torn away from tender burned flesh.

Desire remained steadfast, strong and impervious to any good sense.

She led him up this staircase, the soft luminescent sconces creating a stairway to heaven of sorts. She felt that adolescent heady rush of being bad. There was something about the shut-in marital life that had brought her to this terrible cross roads. On the verge of something irreversible, something that used to only exist within the safe confines of her mind’s eye. Those innumerable fantasies she enjoyed by herself, mostly in the bathtub were now coming true…well, one of them at least.

“Here we are. We can’t back out now.” She looked at him intently, those smoky eyes transmitting a silent challenge. All he could do was nod his head in tacit understanding. Nothing needed to be said.

He stepped into her bedroom and was immediately confronted with a more overpowering version of her scent. A scent he only picked up as tiny sparks to the nervous system on the walk from the duck pond. Of course he was tentative and so was she. As time slowed, their breathing quickened. Their movements languid, floating through a form of space of their own making. The layers of social inhibition slowly being stripped away as the primal instinct takes over. Life begins to occur in flashes. A river of spasmodic electric shocks. The fumbling becomes smoother, more in tune. The walls of consciousness are broken down. As one in darkness, enveloped by the light of their desire.

They lay side-by-side in meditative contemplation.

“You want something to eat? To drink?”

“Sure. Coke?”

“Yup. Coming right up,” she breathed as she leaned over to kiss his dry lips.

Their voices were raspy and cracked. Their lips dry yet their skin wet and soft to the touch. He couldn’t remember ever feeling a softer surface his entire life as the small of her back where his hand rested. He was rough and hairy, but manly. Maybe that’s what she missed about the trysts from her past. That unbridled masculinity of youth. Sure, they were numbskulls but the testosterone was completely overwhelming and addictive. She carefully leaned out of the bed, and he watched her go.

He considered briefly the possibility that they may be caught. Him sitting up in her husband’s bed with a Coke in his hand and her resting her head on his chest, slowly drifting off to sleep. It was only a fleeting thought because in his current state of bliss, nothing bad could happen. EVER.

She padded softly to the kitchen. The cool marble flooring sending pricks of ice through the soles of her feet. This felt good contrasted with the warm closeness of the bedroom. The bedroom she shared with her husband. The bedroom that will never be the same again. She new that every time she walked into that room she would smell HIM. She would see HIM, resting casually on the bed. All her sense would instantly remind her of this day, this auspicious afternoon. Some inconsequential afternoon in some inconsequential week in some inconsequential month in the year 2015. She woke up this morning not thinking that this would ever happen. But then no one really does. That’s what makes life worth living. You never know when you have the opportunity to ruin your life and marriage because of some pithy sexual desires.

Ding Dong.

The doorbell sent a high-pitched alarum throughout the house and a stab of shock through its inhabitants. It couldn’t be anyone living in this mini suburban palace, but it could be one of her neighbours; those nosy vultures always probing where they have no business. She bolted back to the bedroom leaving the 2 litre bottle of Coke to drip on the marble counter top. Instead of her silk robe she threw on some sweat pants and a t-shirt then made her way downstairs.

He just sat there, bolt upright in the bed afraid to even twitch, breath or think. His heart seemed to be jumping around twice as fast as before, beads of moisture popping out on his shiny forehead and his mouth turned to sand. He couldn’t run, jump out the window or pretend to be the plumber. That stuff only happened in ridiculous romantic comedies.

She slowly composed herself, straightened her unkempt hair and walked quickly down the winding staircase to the ground floor. Scenarios intruded upon her mind from the inconsequential to the disastrous. The walk to the door seemed to occur in slow motion; she saw her hand reach up to the peephole and move aside the cover. A young man. Seemed to be wearing some sort of uniform. A package. Phew. Just a courier. Relief overtook her. A deep breath found its way into her lungs as she unlocked the door.

“Sign here ma’am.”

Two People – Part 1

HE never took a day off. The times might change but the repetitive act of walking would always happen, no matter the weather or his mood. In fact the mere routine of putting one foot in front of the other was enough to focus his mind to a pin prick, all other mortal concerns floating away down the river. The route took him along a set path that follows a creek for about 10 kilometres, snaking between trees and diverging into small ponds and marshland along the way. The only concern to him was the innumerable number of cyclists who thought they owned the path more than bipeds. There are usually at least five or six instances during a two hour walk where he would start as a shape made of fluorescent spandex and metal would fly past, mere inches away from his shoulder. Just raising his arm by 45 degrees would initiate a rather glorious tumble. One of the great things about the path itself is the duck pond that seems to always appear from the behind the trees, always just like the first time. There were also swans, geese and even an ibis calling this little suburban paradise home; they would flop on the bank, drying out in the sun before flapping madly and plunging in again when the humans got too close. He liked to sit and stare out into the duck pond and glance at the human (and animal) traffic that converged on this natural hub of calm and peacefulness.

SHE wandered over to the pond, a bright pink leash dangling from the plaid canine harness attached to a tan pug. For her these walks reminded her of those childhood strolls on the beach with her father, the low-hanging elm and birch brushing past her thick overcoat during winter and lightly scratching her bare skin in the summer. “Bailey” was a three-year-old pug her family adopted from the RSPCA. When she saw him, she had to have him and so she did. His eyes seemed to reflect something tired and worn out; it was a look that belied his youth, and perhaps it was something she felt a certain kinship with. They immediately bonded and enjoyed merely sitting, enjoying each other’s company. These forays to the duck pond involved a relatively short walk from the two-storey townhouse she called home. She and her canine prince savoured these times like a fine cup of artisanal coffee. Bailey would gaze upon the avian species dotting the pond in curiosity, his head cocked to one side whenever the birds would waddle close or when they took off in a gaggle of feathers and water. There was no malice in his gaze, but merely a recognition of the collective animal unconscious – “That’s an odd way to live”.

HE saw her before the dog, which was odd because he has always been fascinated by the relationship between canine and Man; a bond that was borne out of a mutually beneficial, though tacit, agreement. The dogs would get shelter, relative safety and a regular meal and the people would get a loyal companion who could be called on as a deterrent or as the last line of defence. For him, he just likes the way the fur and the unalterable pulse of life flowed together to create a sense of existence that was difficult to describe. He also believed that there was something about humans somehow feeling a sense of vicarious enjoyment with how they provide for their animals – all they do is perform their homeostatic functions and hang out. It’s a life that many people strive to achieve but few could actually pull off without earning the ire of those around them. He watched as she moved seemingly at random amongst the low-hanging trees only to end up on the banks of the pond, staring out into the still, grey water. He watched as the breeze ruffled her ponytail; he watched as the dog pawed at something on the ground then sniffed the air; he watched as she peered down at the dog, a look of quiet contemplation on her fine features.

SHE looked out at the water. She really liked seeing the ripples splay out in concentric circles, a physical manifestation that was so real, consistent and predictable. This was nature at work – the physical world playing out in front of her. No mumbo-jumbo religiosity or superstition. A rock falls in the water, the ripples flow away from the splash…every time. Not like people. People changed. They were mostly unpredictable. She knew Bailey. What he likes; what he does; his reaction to things. Consistent. Predictable and reliable. These were what she valued above all else. But there were also other things she liked – secret things that she dare not admit to even herself.

Unbeknownst of the unseen machinations of the universe, the two disparate individuals met at that spot for the first time. In their heads the typical fireworks display of doubt and exultation; of fear and pleasure. No physical contact was made, but their mental connection provided goosebumps, provided a warm spreading sensation throughout their bodies. Words became foreign, a once common language turning to dust in their mouths. All that existed was the feeling. The feeling that shall not be named because it can’t be explained because it shouldn’t be understood. There are things in the universe that exist on the plane of the metaphysical, one of them being love. This is for the good of humanity: no one wants to know why, they just want to know.

A short story about Love

Today I Saw…

“What I’m saying is that we keep focusing on this idea of romantic existentialism where the real meaning of our existence is expressed through romantic connections and I think that’s just so unproductive, I mean…”

The drone of conversation throughout the train usually keeps to itself, today however the lilting intonations of Mr. Existentialism wafted throughout the carriage like a noisy fart, touching everybody. Granted most of these people where buried deep within their own aural confines through either earphones or headphones so perhaps only experienced my ambient discomfort on an unconscious level. For that I was envious.

“…think about it, we chain ourselves to another human being, essentially becoming subservient chattel to a patriarchal sociological contract drawn up in a time so ancient, they didn’t even have flushable toilets let alone the mental capacity to comprehend a time where women would someday have the ability to take a shit without asking permission from their masters, I mean, “husbands”. Don’t give me this crap about love either, I mean trust me I’ve been in love before…”

I couldn’t imagine someone actually having the patience to listen to this and at the same time have the heart to fall in love with this human gramophone. The patience required for such a feat would surely qualify that person for a Nobel Peace Prize. I lifted up my head from my reading to survey the train as one does every so often: an unconscious reconnaître that seems to have no purpose other than to survey the other humans that have taken up residence in a common space. The journey to work always seemed to consist of the most cliched of passengers; don’t worry I wont list them here, it’s too tiring to even think on, never mind write.

“…and Valentine’s Day, I mean What. A. Scam! Trust me, ask any woman, they’d rather spend that $100 you wasted on roses on having fun: beer, hot food and bowling, I mean this isn’t complex! Seriously how is a dozen red roses still a thing? People are obsessed with keeping these pointless cliches alive. As a society we worship mediocrity and pray at the alter of banality. What happened to originality? What happened to having a personal identity?”

“I thought you were talking about love”

“I am, this is all related, trust me. O.K. love, I mean. What more do I have to say?”

A lot by the sounds of it. Some of what he said I actually agree with, even if he is still an annoying blowhard. Valentine’s Day has it’s uses but really, we can’t have Valentine’s Day, like, ALL THE TIME? Really? We need a manufactured consensus on when to celebrate the ones we’ve fallen for? We’re better than that, surely. Speaking of, I noticed someone three rows down, rugged up in a thick pea coat, dark hair falling in curled rivulets around her slender shoulders, unadorned except for a collection of invisible hair pins. The hair pins you find in between the pillows on the couch, or in the bathroom drawer, just popping up everywhere. She was reading a Judy Picoult novel, something with a colourful, wistful cover, the author’s name emblazoned across the front to leave little doubt who was responsible for this literary work. I’ve never read one of her novels but hey, she’s successful, and sometimes, that’s all that matters.

“Listen…”

Like we have any choice.

“…the idea of ‘love’ has its uses. Without love, we wouldn’t understand, really, how we feel about people. I’m talking more about people we have a platonic affection for, like family, for example. That type of love is the only thing on this Earth we can understand and depend on. everything else is just wispy noise, here today, gone tomorrow. There’s a reason why most, I repeat, most marriages are a sham: we just get sick of other people. If we don’t have this personal, genetic connection to someone, how can we be expected to maintain such a ‘loving’ relationship over many years? It’s unnatural! Give me work, money and good friends any day. Love? Who needs it?”

The book I’m reading is working it’s way, execrably, to it’s ignominious conclusion. For some reason I always have a tendency to slow down as the end approaches, the same goes for food. There’s something metaphorical there, something about longing and holding on to things that needs to be let go, but anyway…

She seemed to be looking up every now and then, the usual reconnaître I mentioned before, but there was something very specific about it. To be honest, my reconnaître seemed to be gravitating toward her, and her to me. It’s never been something that I had essentially sought out, after all, human connection of any kind is daunting at the best of times. The busy train carriage is a great place to survey what’s on offer but it’s more about window shopping than anything else. Something to see and wonder about before turning around and going about our personal business, the connection broken like a thin thread of cotton, disregarded and casually dismissed. However during such a tacit connection, we really don’t want it to end.

A cynic would mention the puerile, childish need of us adults to seek validation from others. A romantic would mention the wonderful, unquantifiable warmth that can develop just from a glance, a momentary burst of adrenaline because your eyes met for just a second, half a second. A connection that could last forever.

Isn’t this life? Don’t these all-too-brief connections provide the impetus for us to get up every morning and live? We put up with so much hardship as part of the human condition, it’s reasonable to expect us to also voluntarily seek to feel a flutter of butterflies in our eager stomachs.

Her eyes seemed to be devoid of colour, or should I say, colour in the colourful sense. Just darkness, implacable, unknowable. Depths of blah, blah, blah. I’m sure I could write at least a chapter of her book talking like that but I gotta admit that I was captivated. Our furtive glances occasionally synchronising, our stomachs, no doubt, also falling out at the same time. It was impossible for me to focus too closely on my book; I’m sure for her it was the same.

What is it about our pride that chains us to the seat, preferring the comfortable route to the option that leaves us wide open to a sharp thrust to the guts, eviscerated from top to toe, embarrassed and diminished, less than human, small, Lilliputian? But then we see ourselves from outside of our bodies, getting up, walking over, exchanging hesitant greetings, small talk.

What are you reading?

Well, one day I might read one of her books, which one should I start with? 

It’s been so chilly lately, hope I don’t catch anything, it’s so risky on the train most days…

Really? Did it hurt? I heard those flu shots are really effective, I’ve never had one myself, which is probably why I’m sick, like, every single winter, I mean it’s a championship run…haha…

Hmmm that sounds complicated, how long have you been doing that for? I went to Monash. Really? Which campus? Nah, I finished waaaaay before you.

Eyes. Smile. Hair. Smile. Straight teeth. Smile. Manicured hands. Smile. Cheeks, chin, face. Smile. Perfume, heady, floral, pleasant. Smile. Smart, driven, career. Smile.

Coffee. Late. Don’t care. Conversation. Warm. Expectation. Emotion. Desire. Phone number.

See you around. Later. Later. Later. Later.

Oh, definitely.

Smile.

The Psychology of Emotional Winning by Ian Fonnie

One thing you can bet on during the Oscars is the likelihood that someone is going to get weepy. Whether it’s a stirring rendition of a much-loved song, an unexpected win or the Death Montage in the middle of the show, tears will flow. The question I want to ask is, what is it about winning that makes us so emotional? What is it that allows us to remove that carefully constructed shield protecting our vulnerabilities from the outside world? Hollywood actors have these finely curated public personas, but all that falls apart once their name is called out and they receive a gold statue. While those outside of the rarified air of Hollywood stardom may never know what it’s really like to hear your name in the Nokia Theatre, as humans, we are still susceptible to such impromptu bouts of emotion due to the very basic fact that we experience stuff that stimulates the same neurological processes as Oscar winners.

The emotional response is due, in large part, to the stimulation of a part of our nervous system responsible for autonomic function – all the automatic process that we have no hand in controlling. I mean, sometimes we can control the tears that somehow leave our eyes but that initial emotional reaction is something built upon millennia of collective consciousness; a process so automatic that we have no idea when it’s coming on until it’s too late. Emotionally distressing situations are obviously intended to elicit feelings of devastation and loss, but winning, that’s a different story.

Credit: Quora

It seems that as humans, we react with very similar physiological responses to both winning and losing; gain and loss. There are countless examples of professional athletes, at the top of their profession, breaking down like babies at winning. An obvious example is Michael Jordan who is famous for his tongue as he is for the image of him hugging the NBA championship trophy to his chest, sweat dripping down and a look of tearful happiness on his face. He wasn’t just weeping a little, he was crying, as if someone close to him had died. This is perhaps the most extreme case of the win-cry but it can also occur when we receive warm fuzzy feelings from those who love us the most.

The idea that one would get emotional because someone says, “I Wuv U” is now considered unnecessarily schmaltzy thanks to countless Hollywood movies and banal television sitcoms who have turned what should be a heartfelt, honest gesture into so much recycled poop. Couples these days exist on a higher plane of romantic endeavour and don’t need such tepid phrases to reiterate what is already known. However the emotional responses I’m talking about can still be achieved when the correct situational conditions are met. I’m not talking about coming home to find a bed of roses, with more roses leading to other stuff like bath tubs and veal ravioli. I’m talking about those unexpectedly tender moments when the feeling of utter love is just begging to be set free and expressed with three simple words. It seems that such moments are more meaningful and lasting than any amount of rose petals and chocolates. And it’s these moments that provide the impetus for these spontaneous emotional outbursts – for both the giver and the receiver. The feeling of limitless joy spreads through us at an alarming rate and haphazardly starts pushing our tears out of our eyes. The crazy thing is we are powerless to stop it.

These examples are intended to provide a glimpse into the complex machinations of the human psyche where both gain and loss elicit the same physiological responses in our tear ducts. There is nothing gender-based in these responses either. I mean you can think that because women are more in touch with their emotions they are more likely to cry at stuff like this but last I checked men have tear ducts too, and these tear ducts can spring open like a sprinkler on a golf course at the right provocation. Of course music and movies have the same propensity for providing embarrassing moments (watch the film version of Les Miserables with someone who gets emotional about stuff. Just bring some extra tissues because you’ll need them). The point is that our emotions are inextricably linked to our physiology in many crazy ways and we are powerless in its salty grip.