From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V4 #83 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Thursday, June 28 2001 Volume 04 : Number 083 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: unspoken words coming out to play [Katherine Alexandra Subject: ET: unspoken words coming out to play numb i have found myself lately lost for words. unable to communicate and closing myself off from the people that i once entangled my life with. i have created distance between myself and others, fully aware of the boundries which i have made. desperatly wanting to take down those walls, make new defenses, but only finding myself tired when trying to seem caring or loving. i no longer want to be here. sitting infront of me. i sometimes wonder, what is it that he is thinking? he hardly says anything, yet knows what i struggle with late at night. as though what i struggle with is different from others. yet he always appears interested and insists that i am something unique, claiming that he too feels a connection. i believe his words while sitting in the chair across from him with tissues in my hand. he would never lie to me, i tell myself. yet now that i am arms distances apart and able to reflect, i wonder if i have been fooled. i wonder if i am merely one of many and will be forgotten by the fall. fantasy i met him at a bar, or at least, i gave him my number at a bar. all i know of him are his dreadlocks and stunning looks. i surprised myself while wearing a brown cardigan and ragged old jeans, by handing this man my number in blue pen written on a torn up coaster. he smiled and blushed, claiming that he will call later in the week. i believed his words and went on with my life. the next day finding myself fantasizing about what this man must be like, mapping out his life and fictional dreams that he must have. yet i am finding myself becoming nervous by the idea of his call, fearful of dissapointment when he says hello. worried that he isn't at all what i have wrapped up. convinced that i have made another mistake. truth i write all of this because i am unable to sleep. i have given up on counting sheep and reading and i have defeated to drinking coffee. i once called up this man, every night that i found myself with too many thoughts, i would wake him from his sleep yet he always sounded polite and delighted. he would read to me over the phone, my favorite was the little prince. he would listen to my worries. my mouth feels tight shut though and i am unable to speek. i am finding myself losing the fluid connection that i once had with him. i have accidently created defenses to the wrong people. home i wait. i wait because my limbs are tired and i have no other option. i am now back at my home, i am no longer a stranger to the people surrounding me. i want to go back. secretly over dinner i miss the solitude and macronni and cheese. i miss meals that are cold and forgotten. i miss feeling so far from all i know that my heart begins to beat incredibly fast, wanting to go out of me, wanting to explore the unknown while i sit there until the moon. yet i am back in the humid air and back in familiar grounds. i wait for august like a groom staring at the bride. love i wonder how it is that a heart learns to become cold and forgetful. how i can stop doodling his name obsessivly rearranging my life into his. i am angry at myself for no longer anticipating his phone calls and for seeing him as nothing more then a friend. i am shocked by how fast the tears rolled out of my eyes, how much emotion i felt, and how quickly it went away, and how lonely i finally am. how old i suddenly feel. sister why do i think she will change? she has never shown that she will, yet i go into her tiny house in an attempt to see her floor clean and her hair combed. i never do, yet i still get a rush of excitment walking up to the door, convinced that today she has turned over a new leaf and has created a life of her own. i daydream of her putting on lipstick and smiling at herself in the mirror, proud of all that she has accomplished. yet i find that reality has a nasty way of grabbing a hold of me and showing how true their words ring. how desperatly i want her to be who she once was, but they are right and i am the one this time that is in denial. i am the one that refuses to look at the car accident, perfectly aware that it is there, yet hoping (crossing my fingers) that it will magically change. mother I met my mother for the first time that day. i saw her life as she has never shown us. she has always been our mother, that we could never see as a child or even as a young adult stumbling through life. she would tell me stories when i was a little girl about how small her home was and how little money she had. she would tell one or two stories to satisfy my sister and i. she would always tell the same story at christmas of when she won a tree one winter, dragging into her tiny house and having to take it back due to her parents pride. she would tell me these stories while i sat with more presents then i could count, while i asked for more. 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