4:40 p.m. - 07/18/02
he. won't. write. back.
i understand why you stopped eating and why you couldn�t ask for help. i understand why morse code was invented; that�s what i need, you know, to tap the meanings with my knuckles on the wood. it's stupid the ways they've made to communicate when you aren't in the same room. the only ones that connect you mean you have to talk too quickly. right away they're asking you who you are what you need what extension what's your name. maybe if some time passed they could coax it out of me, but i understand how injured you are in there and how deep it seems. everything is blurred again, and i remember better than i have. maybe it wasn't depression, maybe it was remembering. maybe i was inside you again looking out at the world i thought i didn't see back then. but there were little scribbled journal entries weren't there. there were things that told them to stop fighting and there were so many couples in a household of seven people; there were so many voices to be yelling. so you were so happy in the hospital, the first place anyone ever took care of you, of course you wanted to be taken care of, of course you became happy, started eating started doing everything, and then because you were happy they sent you home. they didn't understand that it was still conditional. they weren't treating her, with the quick intellect and the fast words, they were treating you way deep down in there, and when they sent you home there wasn't anyone left who could find her, she was alone again, so of course her words have gone away, and now they're sending her off to a place that is so far, she'll have to use things like phones, and if she wants to write she'll have to ward off the one with the quick intellect and the fast words, and she won't be able to tell it like she feels it because that would mean no sentences just images and confusion pieces of things that don't fit together like she's tired and the oranges here have mold. there are no oranges only grapes, something out of alice in wonderland, this is not wonderland; lewis carrol was a pedophile just like the priests staying down the street at a place that is not red.
i understand me if no one else does; i'm still here.
chord
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