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I�m tired of waiting. But I�ve waited so long I don�t think there would be anything left of me if I stopped. Almost as though everything about me is waiting. Waiting for some sign, or omen. Waiting for something to move, crack open, shift. Waiting for something to break, burst, put on some show.

I haven�t been pushing anything. I haven�t pressed any issues, outside of you. I haven�t yelled, or screamed, or made my opinions known because all it ever does is make people angry and dissatisfied. I can�t tell the difference between my choice in battles and my apathy. I�m not fighting any more, I�m just letting you win.

I wish I could convince you to go and let go, move and move on. Everyone will always do everything on their own time, and that�s why I will not say it more than once.

All of these times that something moves me enough, I�ve always been left to pick up the pieces and put myself back together. I�m not complaining, I know exactly how the pieces fit after so much practice, my recovery time is shorter. My chances of movement have almost ceased.

I spent three days working you out, over analyzing, calculating, and recalculating. Conducting experiments on myself, making myself feel better. I talked myself out, every time you worked in. And at that table, I thought I wish you were here, you do not remind me of anyone. I didn�t tell you that.

I resign myself to all kinds of punishment for not reaching goals I set. I give myself unlimited time to do things I could get done today. I convince myself the way I feel is okay. Unwind, reverse everything and we would have nothing. I didn�t want you to miss me, because you can�t. I did want you to miss me, because you should, in the way no one can explain.

This should be a phone call away, or a ten minute drive. This should be all of the things I want and you want put together, instead of a tenuous relationship based on clips, my gut reactions, premonitions, dreams I have now and lines you haven�t crossed.

I�m fighting my need to throw this in a box with everything else, sorted by shape and color out of necessity. If I can do that, I may save myself some embarrassment and trouble. If I could quit writing about it, I may save myself time, but it doesn�t stop me from thinking about it.

And I know you wish I would. I know you want me to treat this like everything else, go back to writing about my frustrations and inabilities. Maybe I would if I could stop you from playing in my head, and stop you from repeating. If I could make the movement to pull the plug and hit the stop button.

I�ll stop bashing my mouth if you stop telling me you�re not worth it.

1:32 p.m. - 2002-12-16


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