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When I write or work in the evening, background noise is important to me.

If I’m writing, it must be classical, instrumental jazz, or Celtic music.

Words distract me. The rhythm and melody must inspire, yet not interrupt.

If I’m working, it can be mood music, as my frontal lobe works relatively well on its own and words won’t distract me. Music then motivates me and moves me in a different way.

Sometimes, it’s silence—but is there any such thing?

The heat goes on, the constant whir of my lamp timer, a car drives past.

The birds sing, someone crunches his way through the snow, an animal howls.

The sounds of life are a different kind of music, unplanned yet welcomed.

Tonight while working, my playlist moved through songs from the 60s and 70s—one of my countless favorite go-tos.

One minute, I was tapping my foot, chair dancing, and banging out my work on my piano—the keyboard. The next minute, I was caught up in a song that provoked a memory or two, causing me to stop and reflect.

For those of you not familiar with that generation of music, this may not resonate with you. You won’t even know the song.

For those who are, you might recognize the song immediately, smiling then taking a walk down memory lane.

Either way—if you don’t know or remember it, Google it. Or click on the hyperlink here.

“I’m not in love” by 10cc.

At some point during the song, a woman eerily sings in a hushed tone, “Be quiet. Big boys don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry,” then fades out as the singer pops back in and insists he is not in love.

I’ve liked and appreciated the song for a lifetime, but don’t think I’d actually processed the words until tonight.

Ironically, they struck a chord while working on a project, resulting in a much needed break in the action.

A man playing hard to get. A man saying you’ll wait a long time for me. A man saying he’s not in love; it’s just a silly phase he’s going through. A man saying, it’s just because—it’s just because of anything other than admitting how he feels. 

The haunting voice in the song is pivotal and a trigger for a multitude of personal issues resulting from how many were raised.

I’m nostalgic. I feel as if I would have been better suited to the 1930s-1960s, but who knows?

What I do know is that there are many aspects of those eras we should retain and honor—civility, respect, privacy, conscience, and plenty of others that I fail to recall this evening.

But what I also know is that there are many aspects of those eras that we need to eradicate for good.

Boys can cry. Boys do cry. And boys should cry. 

The battle of the sexes and gender biases need to be damned.

The moralistic righteousness and opinions of women who sleep around, get pregnant out of wedlock, or choose to take a different path—whatever that path may be—need to be damned.

Women can do what they want, when they want, with whom they want. Period. And it’s their life to live.

Who’s to judge?

The belief that man and woman should marry and procreate needs to be damned.

Men should pursue who they want and women should pursue who they want—and procreation should be at their discretion. Children require love and commitment—period. No longer is the time when men or women had to marry and be forced into a life of obligation and societal scrutiny. Period. And it’s their life to live.

Who’s to judge?

I recently binged on a series that was well—fabulous! Stellar, phenomenal, and incredible—to me and my family.

Pregnant teens forced into an unwed mother’s home. Humans discovering their sexuality, encouraged to change their minds if they wanted the same sex. Unscrupulous priests who faced the world as God—and slept with the devil. Back alley abortions. Lies. Secrets. Pain. Suffering.

Why?

There is a way for us to all live harmoniously—through tolerance and acceptance.

Who’s to judge?

We should spend our time learning, then seeking a way to understand.

There is no moral high ground today, and thank God there isn’t.

For those who still subscribe to that philosophy, may you meet your maker one day. Because I’m almost certain that s/he’ll agree with me.

Big boys do cry.

~