Remoy Philip

writer. creator. producer.


I saw this girl on the train earlier. She was crying. Not loudly or any bit over exaggerated but just slightly. Like she had encountered a tiny vice of melancholy and what was once a seed had germinated, flowering her with simple tears. It wasn't noticeable. Indeed, you had to search for it. Indeed. I looked at her intently, just to make sure, to understand why she was hurt.

She was a petite girl. I call her a girl, but she was definitely a woman. But there's something so innocent about tears like hers that I can't help but refer to her as a girl. And there she sat, across from me, ever so often taking a finger to wipe away her simple tears. Her lips upturned at the ends with her eyes blank while her mind was distended and lost.

I wanted desperately to be her hero. Pick her up and shake her. Extend words of grace and tell her she would be OK. Make her see her value. Refer her to things of the beautiful of nature. Make her laugh. Change her completely in a moment, and take the value of solitude and replace it with the quality of communal laughing. That's what I wanted.

But I don't think that's what she may have needed. I think she needed those tears. If anything, that's what she had, and that's all she could have done. I would give her hope. Change her world, at least momentarily. But whatever had hurt her, the thing that had scoured away her pretenses, it was living and vital to her time on that train. The depths of the pain, or the simplicities of her grief was completely real, at least for her in that time, and the only thing she could do was breathe in that doting self sympathy. She didn't need me, she needed herself.

God speed.

Be Relentless,