ill inspirata.

it doesnt matter. it doesnt matter anymore.

people are selfish. people are kind. people are forgotten

and some exsist forever in our hearts and minds.

theyres people that are good for the soul.

and people who would sell theirs for yours.

theres people that hate themselfs and people

that love themselves. out of honesty or conciet.

there are real people.. who live for feeling happy

and making others happy.. theres people who

see beauty in the littlest things and i need to meet

more. please send me more. i want someone who

really cares about the friendships they create.

someone who sees like me. send her or him please.

just get me.

get me.

notes

Eight rules for writing fiction:

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages

do people really care about others?

do people really truely give a shit?

cause if they dont, im fucked

cause i do.

i love making people smile.

a natural high to see simply cheeks and lips

rise.. and its so beautiful to see it..

its like the sun rising to me. looking so simple

but in reality.. the sun is millions and bazillion miles

away from where im sitting.. do you get what i mean?

behind a smile.. THERE can BE a MILLION reasons why

simple complex whatever you breathe.

there somthing about changing clothes that soothes the troubled mind.

changing from jeans to a soft pair of sweats effects you.

my brain wont turn off and i cant seem to type right..

i want to wake up on a beach.. with my friends in a huge bed...

in the center of the sand, no boxspring or headboard just a matress

and the sand is from an island we are on. we are far from trouble

close to excitement and ready for the day.

but as i write this.. rather... type this.. all i want to do is fall

into my bed. im sitting on it.. my island.

behind the walls of a room i could be doing anything.

and you wouldnt know.

stomping crunching over the grass and leaves..

eyes opened and im pulling up my sleeves.

as i dig into the mysteries.

liquid, falling.. floating.

eyes closed and im hoping.

breaking through to the surface..

i breathe. i open up my eyes

and i breathe.

i want to know what you think of me.

i want to know what you see when you look at me.

who do you think i am? what songs remind you

of me? 

what color are my eyes?

when you think of me.. just seeing me.. is it daytime or night time behind me?

i endulge my need to narirate. i think i will organize all this into a story, a book.
not sure what person, if anyone reads this tell me what you think it should be told in.

im guna try both and compare.
even if no one reads this its good to keep personal notes.
- im actually sleepy ill write the next one tomarrow.

as he walked into the room..
her eyelids made no indication of concious,
she seemed to be in a very deep peaceful sleep.
before she fell into this slumber she had a very
facinating night. she smiled before she threw herself
on her bed and embraced the soft pillows. in sleep
though he could tell she was having a good dream.
maybe filled with all her favorite things. or just bullshit.
he moved closer and was hesitant to wake her, he thought
back to years ago when he first met her.. they were 8
and she tried to wrestle him when he told her his name.
she won.
he thought back to the last time he saw her.
pathetically he remembered every detail.. the
way it was raining fit the day horribly. He was
going to to a shitty college that he didnt even
want to be at.
"You're my fucking best friend and im pissed. call the school and tell
them to fuck off. . oh you cant do that, fuck.. well when you're back here
you better show up at my house with a box of crunch berries!"
and he had the crunch berries with him.


"How the fuck did you get in here? im excited but im just curious..
did i leave the back door unlocked? i need to stop doing that." she sighed.
"or are you still good at picking locks."
"same hideaway key location for these three years? shut up and give me a hug."
"oh!"

no make up on and her eyes were bright, soft cheeks curved with her classic grin.

so i was at zachs house today 

and i was flipping through a buddhist book he has, 

i stumbled across some beautiful quotes.

all creation begins with the sacred union

of male and female energies, to experience 

the pure creative passion between man and woman.. 

to know unconditional love is to manifest the body, 

mind, and spirit of buddha.

death is not the end of life, 

but another doorway. 

 freed of the body, 

we behold the spectacle 

of these celestial beings.

breath enters the body like a spiraled rainbow, 

bringing with it the life force of the universe.

 This vital air, or prana, feeds the subtle body 

that dwells within us. In meditation absorbed 

in the flow of the breath,

we can actually see this divine body.

if we keep in our minds the thought that one day each of us die. we can cherish every moment that we are alive. embracing the knowledge of life impermanence . we stare death boldy in the face.

I am alive and I have found the key to solving sadness. About an hour or two ago I had walked into this room frustrated and full of angst, Putting music on I sat, sang and ironically chain-smoked. I began mixing colors and sketching outlines on the raw canvas before me. My tension became concentration, and soon enough concentration became my delightful distraction. As I painted I felt as if I was breathing steady again. I decided to relax and drink some tea, for I had drained my mind of the days inspiration. Getting up I noticed the paint of my fingers was drying. I didn’t care much and put the tea on. I opened the window as I wiped the small beads of sweat from my forehead.
Barefoot, I walked towards the window. I slid it open and greeted the sunshine with a smile just as warm. I placed my hot tea and pack of cigarettes on the stool next to the window and took a nice seat in a couch seat older than I. From my 2nd story window my eyes scanned familiar scenery. The cold autumn wind blew leaves around the passing people, the travelers for the moment.. I like to say, we are all travelers until we are no longer in search of our destinations. I lit a cigarette, leaned back on my chair reaching into the crevice of the cushion, I pulled out my current escape from the world around me, licking my lips, I took a drag and began to read. I was taking a cautious sip of my tea and a sound so slight.. So quiet.. Caught my attention. The sound revealed itself in seconds. Footsteps somehow were softly pounding on the concrete. As I looked up, it was as if there was nothing beyond the eyes that by chance met mine.
“Hello.” He spoke in, the perfect tone and volume, his voice was up and cheery, as if he was and old friend. Someone I knew.
“Hi there.” I said, as I felt my lips curve upwards. I noticed his eyes, even from the distance were dancing with the colors of autumn. Right as his lips adopted the smile on mine.