in the morning it looks different
1:20 am on 08.03.06
i hate that i'm not good at consoling people. and that i couldn't call when you asked me to. even though we don't know each other all that well. but you listened to all my sister drama. you understood. it felt like understanding in a way that doesn't come around much. and your friend died. and i should be better at knowing what to say by now. but i'm not. i'm still just as confused and hoping for tomorrow like everyone else. and he asked about what what really matters. and how can it matter when nothing is ever enough or completely right. and i just wrote this whole email about the starfish story from chicken soup for the soul. that what's his name read to us in student council way back when. and he got choked up when he read it. which we giggled about later, but seems almost wrong now, when i get choked up over seeing the moon in the right light. and i hated that same teacher and his stories later, when i ran away and he told everyone, "that's the kind of person they were trying to reach." but that's not the point. it was that silly story about starfish dying in the sun on the beach and that kid throwing them back one by one. and people saying it didn't matter. and the kid said, "well, it made a differnce to that one." i can't believe i'm retelling that story. it's funny how that works. sometimes i wish i could just hug everyone and melt away.
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