Index - Profile - Archives - Notes - DiaryLand - Random ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 159 In a six and a half hour phone call, I promised something that was delivered today. I was a little nervous, because the something I promised was personal, and something that I very much wanted to give. The box arrived today, and I realized I was more nervous about my handwriting than the other things in the box. I was terribly nervous over the letter, and the CD�s with my marks on them. Almost to the point that it wouldn�t have mattered, nothing would have mattered unless my writing was looked at with something. The something is hard to place. I don�t know what kind of emotion you�re supposed to have towards something that personal. I know it�s important. It�s important because it says so many things about you regardless of the words you write. I feel vulnerable. Like I�ve let him look into something, and I�m back to the minutes it took for promises to be extracted. Back to the seconds when it felt safe. Maybe the something is acceptance. Maybe I feel like if someone can read my writing, they�ll be able to understand me. If the shapes appeal, if it looks familiar, if it�s something you could keep tucked away in your wallet. And it�s silly, but I�m proud of my hand writing. All of the C�s I got in school for my penmanship mean nothing when people ask you to make signs because of the way you form letters. I just want to hear it. I want to hear the �I loved it� over and over and over again, until it�s like my favorite song, and I know all the words, and all of the �oohs� and �aahs�, and every spot where if you�re singing really loudly you can take a breath. Breathe. . . .Good Night.7:39 p.m. - 2003-01-09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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