It was a quiet tear. Formed and full of pain as it silently glided down an already slick cheek. Blurry eyes and tightened throat the only acknowledgement of the source. There is no sound, no drama, but each one is noticed as it emerges, followed on its path, and grieved for when gone. There is no other sign, just tear after tear after unwiped tear.

Elsewhere the laughter echoes, proudly proclaiming the joy and release of itself. A booming noise of resonant depth, infectious and heartfelt. Tear after tear after tear are removed with a rough sweep of the hand. Forgotten in an instant as the laughter continues.

Other tears form unwanted, fought back through rage and determination. Caught in their birth moments and crushed defiantly. Aborted in anger. Smeared on the back of palms, a momentary lapse.

And there, in the black, where the tears flow freely, where they rush and tumble in their hurry, cheered on by gulping, choking and wretched cries, the tears willingly sacrifice themselves. Valiant and brave they take what they can with them, their silvery beads clinging to grief as it smashes to the ground, engulfed in the puddles.

Pity not the quiet tear, the sadness and heartache that it holds should not be despised or ignored, chastised or feared. The quiet tear is true, is alive and vivid and beautiful. For only the quiet tear exists purely to exist.