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=   F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K.   =
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                        Her and The Stone
                        -----------------

Reading the words that have been pulled up on the screen in front of me, I
crinkle my forehead in concentration, trying to remember if I had written
what I am reading now before me.

Passing through the paragraphs, I know I have been in those scenes before,
and I close my eyes, as I re-live that part of my life.

Finishing the file, I see someone elses name.  A name that I always felt
was mine, but never used ... I realize that it was not I that wrote it,
but it was just everything that I had meant to write.  And thoughts and
experiences that I had lived.

Thoughts began to flood my mind, of the paranoia kind.

How had this person gotten in my head, to collect, memorize, and write down
my most inner-most thoughts, memories, and realizations?

How was I suppose to believe that I had not written those things, and someone
else was just signing their name to them?  Looking around my room, I rummage
through everything looking and stacking every last journal and diary and
poem I had ever wrote, every last deep thought jotted down, and every itsy
piece of paper and sayings.  Pulling all of it together, in the center of
my floor, I place a leg around each side, and bring my hands over the top
of the pile, as I begin to rapidly skim, like mad to find something missing.
Anything missing that would have possibly given someone that edge to write
something so personal about me, in such a public way.  A lump forms in my
throat, and tears spring to my eyes, how could someone expose me that way?
Finally, I let my arms fall down in frustration to my sides.  Raising my 
head, as my eyes follow upwards towards the ceiling.  Closing my eyes, I
wish for the hot flame within me to be put out.  This flame of hatred and
fear for the one that has been able to write and publicize such personal
aspects of me.  I wish for the gentle cooling of the sky's tears, of rain
now appearing to cleanse this mind and release this heat.

Beads begin to fall, and make streams down my neck and forehead, my arms,
my legs, my chest, my stomach ... my clothes begin to soak up the rain, as
a shiver begins deep within my body and continues all the way out.  My hair
is beginning to be weighted down by the pull of the sky's tears.  Steam
rises off of my body, escaping upwards to erase the anger.

Not wanting the cooling and cleansing to end, I keep my eyes closed, as I
hear the papers, books, journals, diaries, and everything else in front of me
absorb the water, and begin to tear apart.  Sighing, I have vented.  The
poison escaping through me, being taken away in the rain that now washes me.

Opening my eyes, as they face the pile that I had gathered in front of me, the
stories, journal entries, notes, poems, thoughts, and everything else now
just wet pulps of what they once were ... never to be read by anyone or heard
by someone.

Returning to my room, a few days later as the sun shines through the tree
tops I fall to my knees, as I see the pile of dried pulps left in a stack
on the ground.  Looking upwards, I see her, sitting there - smiling at me
with an all-knowing glare.  Within her hands, are all the things that I
thought had melted away ... she now knows, and loves it.

I will never understand how she knew, or how she could ever find out ...
for she is no image of me - except in everything she has written or said.
We are not one in the same, yet we are the same.  Everyone is different,
yet she somehow seems the same as me.

Reading the words that have been pulled up on the screen in front of me, I
crinkle my forehead in concentration, trying to remember if I had written
what I am reading now before me.

Passing through the paragraphs, I know I have been in those scenes before,
and I close my eyes, as I re-live that part of my life.

Finishing the file, I see someone elses name.  A name that I always felt was
mine, but never used ... I realize that it was not I that wrote it, but it
was just everything that I had meant to write.  And thoughts and experiences
that I had lived.

Thoughts began to flood my mind, of the paranoia kind.

How had this person gotten in my head, to collect, memorize, and write down
my most inner-most thoughts, memories, and realizations?

I will never understand how she knew, or how she could ever find out ... for
she is no image of me - except in everything she has written or said.  We
are not one in the same, yet we are the same.  Everyone is different, yet
she somehow seems the same as me.


-Kamira
December 18, 1997
kami@sekurity.org
www.sekurity.org/~kamira

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