4:22 pm - Monday, Jun. 07, 2004
Song:
Alex. Chose the marines, and chose where she is now, in Okinawa, Japan. The only way I keep in touch with her really is through a few letters, which I rarely send and her Live Journal. That�s why she�s frustrating me so now.
It�s hard when you don�t understand what it is a person is trying to say to you, because they are saying it in flat lifeless words on a computer screen. She�s been talking more and more about Iraq, how she feels her duty is to be there in someway, how she wants to be there, and I don�t know what this means. I don�t know how serious she is.
Here, here�s what I want to say to her if she�s serious. No, you can�t do it and you cannot go, because you�re already too far away, and because there are already people I care about over there.
Please don�t add yourself to that list of people I compile each morning. This list is the one I put together when they say a local soldier has died. This is the list that I run through each day when I pick up the front page of the newspaper. Each day I have to search through articles until a name is used.
And when that name doesn�t fit any of those on my list, I feel so angry at my self, and relieved, and happy, and sad that I get the chance to breathe that sigh of relief when so many others don�t.
I hate this war, and I hate that I�m everyday afraid to lose that boy I used to tease about the way he made Italian sodas, or stand at a funeral as a cousin bawls in my arms over a husband. These are images of my future that I can�t be sure are simply the workings of an overly paranoid mind, because they are the looming truths and possibilities.
So if Alex would please not become another one of those possibilities, maybe with time I�ll be able to pick up a newspaper someday without my stomach leaping into my throat and begin breathing in the mornings
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