Yes, I know the phrase actually goes: no point in crying over spilt milk, but "spoiled" feels more appropriate to me. Have you ever tried spoiled milk? That sour, gooey, quasi-maternal taste? One that no one wants to taste again but is hard not to revisit when thinking of sourness. Even as I write this, I can taste it. And I bet you can too.
What does it mean to cry over spoiled milk? I believe it has something to do with getting over something, or the opposite—not getting over it when it’s already supposed to be a done deal. Something basically broken. Done. Expired. My take on this phrase: revisiting closed doors. Or maybe a pseudo trip to the past. For me, it’s impossible not to. To experience nostalgia is in human nature, no? I believe so. How can one understand the present without understanding what expired back then? How can one live without opening the fridge and throwing away what smells a bit off or has some white mold brewing?
I try to make myself believe I am an anxiety-free human. I make myself believe I don’t overthink every single conversation, interaction, or decision I’ve ever had. I make myself believe I can be like Clementine Kruczynski in "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." The perfect, manic, carefree woman. One everyone desires for her ability to just live. The reality is I cry way too much over spoiled milk to even resemble her. Every woman, I think. Who doesn’t shed some tears for what could have been? It is in my nature to reevaluate the rationale in what has happened and once again understand why things ended as they are now.
I moved countries twice, once abroad, and once to go back home. I believe I came back because what could have been was bigger than what is actually happening abroad. I never looked back. I thought about it, but never with any sort of longing. What is happening in the places I’ve left behind? No clue, I don’t care. I don’t mind. Maybe crying over spilt milk is something that happens when there is something to cry about. I truly don’t believe there is an inch of my body that aches for London. A different situation was when I was looking back home, nostalgic for what university I could be attending, quantifying how many dinners I could have had with my grandparents, who were waiting for me. I did indeed cry so much before going back home. My body, physically, ached for Buenos Aires.
Not sure if I am explaining myself. I am trying to wonder: is crying over spoiled milk just a natural mechanism to everything? Is it an instinctual response to the universe’s calling for us? I truly don’t believe in those magical things, but why do I hold on to certain situations so much, and others—as important as they may seem—run like water? Why can't I cry over London? Why am I so over it? I can't seem to let go of random guys who barely spoke to me and probably never will, yet London; I couldn’t care any less.
Maybe it is not about crying over spilled milk. I’ve been expressing myself wrong all this time. Expired things, like London for me, are not worth crying over. And what causes me nostalgia—to move back home, to text that random friend you ghosted on a Tuesday, and makes you cry—is milk that is about to go bad. On the verge of expiring but still fresh. That’s why it makes us cry, because there is still something there waiting for us. Crying over about-to-expire milk—but not quite there—just might be the sign to move back home.