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9:24 p.m. - 10/03/03
thunder wishes it could be the snow.
It didn't go well. Odd considering how normal it was, on the surface. I cried; he tried to translate the tears. He asked me what I would change with a magic wand; I said I'd be in touch with everyone again. I'd hear from all the Rogers folk regularly. They wouldn't have forgotten me or moved on; I'd still have them. It wouldn't be a quirk-gone-crazy to have love for them spilled all over my journal, all over my walls, all over my life. I said I'd be able to go home at night, and I cried thinking it, cried hard, cried quiet. "Just one night," I whispered, and he said, "hey, we have a magic wand; why limit it to just one?" but just one seems like so much compared to never. "It seems like so much to ask," he said. Other questions: Why does it have to be this way? What the hell did I do to deserve this? I know: nothing. There's no comfort in believing it isn't justified. It's still reality. And as he said, "it'd help if you could fall in love with someone here. But then, you must feel about that also. You know there are steps you need to take and are being told not to take right now." To move forward, to meet people, to get free enough to settle in again. What's so odd about me, that I can't keep a home? What's so hard to place?

Keep it rhetorical. No shame answering tonight.

He told me to give him the pain and the questions, and he'd hold onto them over the weekend. It's his way of lightening my load so I can leave his office when it's past time and I'm still crying uncontrollably. But I just shook my head. Not this time. I'm not trying to unravel a problem; I can't hand it over to you for a few days, and come back refreshed. I'm in pain. And there's no storing that. It's the kindest offer, but these are just my tears. He can't take them.

Can't take me either. No one can. No one can take my hand and lead me home. What am I waiting for?

chord

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