04.16.2004 - 11:49 a.m.

They had a blood drive on campus the other day, which I didn't give for. It wasn't that I have a problem with needles--it was that I knew I'd need all the iron in me to get through the rest of the work week.

And I went to a concert last night. She's playing that same guitar, with the same worn patch beneath her arm, and this made me a little nervous over whether I�d still like her�after all, it�s been over a year, and I don�t need her help anymore in finding strength in leaving, or hope in feeling.

But just like last time, I sat rather still and rather forward, propping my arms up on the table to hide the fact that I was bleeding my emotions down the hidden side of the plastic tablecloth, letting them soak into the carpet along with the words I would have used to describe them. It happens this time because of that particular artist, but it�s the same thing that happens to me at poetry readings, cello concerts, and spontaneous car singing. And afterwards, listening to friends� exclamations of why it was so perfect and complete, I am still too lightheaded, so frustrated that they don�t �get it� when what they�re trying to describe is the same thing I can only feel silently, never explain.

This bloodletting, for reasons I will probably never articulate, is exactly the iron I needed.

-stonebridge

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