A teardrop is such a tiny thing, is it not? A teardrop, however, may hold all the meaning in the world. It may end a conversation and yet, it may begin one. This makes me wonder, what power does it have that it moves men so?

Figuratively speaking, a tear is nothing more or less than the purest essence of our emotions, be it anger, sorrow, or elation, and they say that one who cannot share his tears is an emotionally weak person.

This, of course, begins the question when and why did it become “uncool” to cry for those who really need it? Does being stoic show strength of character?

Of course, being in the presence of inelegant blubbering I awkward but you don’t have to join it to do you? Isn’t that as natural as voicing your opinion? After all, morals and emotions separate man from beast.

I say down with this repression, break off these societal shackles and attain true freedom, both in body and mind. And if not, well… I will keep for thee.

Once again I find myself at the solitary clock tower on the cliff overlooking the seashore, the stars and the full moon being my only companions this night. Outside, I see that the Aurora is beginning, sending dancing flashes of color across the lonely landscape. While staring at this majestic display, I feel at peace listening to the celestial music only the night sky’s silence can provide.

Looking back, I see the tower just as it announces midnight, with tolling bells sending a mournful wail that echoes through the trees. For once, I am satisfied in being alone, I realize that it is the only thing that gives me freedom. True freedom, free from the binding shackles of society, its uncouth hustle and bustle. Once again I return my sight to the masquerade unfolding above as through each flash of light, the constellations come to life, I see Orion’s hunt still continuing, the Gemini and the Virgo dancing upon a meadows of starlight. But as the northern lights fade, so does my vision slowly disappear. The tower announces the first hour of the morning, I look at it, and decide that the moon shall be the only clock I shall even need.

                  It was dusk, the soldier was walking along the familiar path to his town. He was using rifle as a makeshift staff and his clothes bore signs that fate had not been kind to him. His uniform was singed in many places and his boots were completely caked with mud. He had a dirty looking gash on his forehead and the right side of his face was covered with dried blood.

                  He had expected to return home as a hero, but ever since they lost the war, all he ever wanted was to return home safe and sound. He was not far now, the town was just over the smoke from the chimneys blowing in the wind. However, something seemed off, there was just a bit more smoke than there should have been.

                  He was in the town square, or what used to be the town square. It was razed to the ground. The town was filled with acrid smell of burning flesh. Skeletons of houses were the only indication that this had ever been a town. He dropped his rifle, running across the neighborhood, calling for his family and friends. Nobody answered. No one was there, not anymore.

                  He took out his revolver. His father gave it to him saying it would bring luck. It did, in a matter of speaking. It kept him safe but there was no more home to return to. He looked at it, it was his only remaining friend, it never left his side. He looked up, it was starting to snow. Good. It would cover the scene. He pulled the trigger and his friend sent him into the infinite.