116 lines
6.3 KiB
Plaintext
116 lines
6.3 KiB
Plaintext
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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
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Reading the words that have been pulled up on the screen in front of me, I
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crinkle my forehead in concentration, trying to remember if I had written
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what I am reading now before me.
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Passing through the paragraphs, I know I have been in those scenes before,
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and I close my eyes, as I re-live that part of my life.
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Finishing the file, I see someone elses name. A name that I always felt
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was mine, but never used ... I realize that it was not I that wrote it,
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but it was just everything that I had meant to write. And thoughts and
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experiences that I had lived.
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Thoughts began to flood my mind, of the paranoia kind.
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How had this person gotten in my head, to collect, memorize, and write down
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my most inner-most thoughts, memories, and realizations?
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How was I suppose to believe that I had not written those things, and someone
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else was just signing their name to them? Looking around my room, I rummage
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through everything looking and stacking every last journal and diary and
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poem I had ever wrote, every last deep thought jotted down, and every itsy
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piece of paper and sayings. Pulling all of it together, in the center of
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my floor, I place a leg around each side, and bring my hands over the top
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of the pile, as I begin to rapidly skim, like mad to find something missing.
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Anything missing that would have possibly given someone that edge to write
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something so personal about me, in such a public way. A lump forms in my
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throat, and tears spring to my eyes, how could someone expose me that way?
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Finally, I let my arms fall down in frustration to my sides. Raising my
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head, as my eyes follow upwards towards the ceiling. Closing my eyes, I
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wish for the hot flame within me to be put out. This flame of hatred and
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fear for the one that has been able to write and publicize such personal
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aspects of me. I wish for the gentle cooling of the sky's tears, of rain
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now appearing to cleanse this mind and release this heat.
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Beads begin to fall, and make streams down my neck and forehead, my arms,
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my legs, my chest, my stomach ... my clothes begin to soak up the rain, as
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a shiver begins deep within my body and continues all the way out. My hair
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is beginning to be weighted down by the pull of the sky's tears. Steam
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rises off of my body, escaping upwards to erase the anger.
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Not wanting the cooling and cleansing to end, I keep my eyes closed, as I
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hear the papers, books, journals, diaries, and everything else in front of me
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absorb the water, and begin to tear apart. Sighing, I have vented. The
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poison escaping through me, being taken away in the rain that now washes me.
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Opening my eyes, as they face the pile that I had gathered in front of me, the
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stories, journal entries, notes, poems, thoughts, and everything else now
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just wet pulps of what they once were ... never to be read by anyone or heard
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by someone.
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Returning to my room, a few days later as the sun shines through the tree
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tops I fall to my knees, as I see the pile of dried pulps left in a stack
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on the ground. Looking upwards, I see her, sitting there - smiling at me
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with an all-knowing glare. Within her hands, are all the things that I
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thought had melted away ... she now knows, and loves it.
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I will never understand how she knew, or how she could ever find out ...
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for she is no image of me - except in everything she has written or said.
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We are not one in the same, yet we are the same. Everyone is different,
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yet she somehow seems the same as me.
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Reading the words that have been pulled up on the screen in front of me, I
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crinkle my forehead in concentration, trying to remember if I had written
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what I am reading now before me.
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Passing through the paragraphs, I know I have been in those scenes before,
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and I close my eyes, as I re-live that part of my life.
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Finishing the file, I see someone elses name. A name that I always felt was
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mine, but never used ... I realize that it was not I that wrote it, but it
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was just everything that I had meant to write. And thoughts and experiences
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that I had lived.
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Thoughts began to flood my mind, of the paranoia kind.
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How had this person gotten in my head, to collect, memorize, and write down
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my most inner-most thoughts, memories, and realizations?
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I will never understand how she knew, or how she could ever find out ... for
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she is no image of me - except in everything she has written or said. We
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are not one in the same, yet we are the same. Everyone is different, yet
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she somehow seems the same as me.
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-Kamira
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December 18, 1997
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kami@sekurity.org
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www.sekurity.org/~kamira
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= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
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= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
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= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
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= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
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= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
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= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
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= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
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= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
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= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
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= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
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= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
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= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
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= http://www.dis.org/se7en/fuck =
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= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
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