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She thinks of him often. Perhaps not exactly in the same way a lover might, but in a way that should never again allow him feel as if he's running through the streets as some anonymous and forgotten figure. She wonders not so much about what he look like, but how he moves, speaks and thinks without the aid of a modem or a telephone wire. She wonders whether or not he is a real person, or if he's merely a perceived individual, made great by her interpretation of what he is and stands for. This she cannot reconcile in her mind.

She cannot overcome her overly suspicious and pessimistic nature in feeling that no person can be without fault. Perhaps this stranger with whom she communicates is not who he appears to be. He cannot be perfect. She's blinded by the computer screen and by mere written words, iterated with emotion, but unchained by the inflection of a human voice and the aura of a human face.

Are we these people in real life? she wonders. Or do we feed off each other to create this superhuman, abundant with honest emotion and open mindedness? She fears that if they were to meet, they would be disappointed -- not in the other person, but in themselves. The dream would be broken. She quietly acknowledges her own schizophrenia, but does not wish to discover it firsthand and especially not in front of him.

However, her curiosity and need for some sort of closure -- closure attained by putting a human form to the words she reads onscreen -- far outweigh her fears. Perhaps one day, when they have had time to gather up their courage and their voice-shyness, they will meet and chat face-to-face. They have much to say.

E.Lin
5/16/00

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