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Inspiration Junkie

the spelling, punctuation, and grammar sucks ass! but its still a pretty cool story i think. actually, i don't know anymore, i'm not even sure that it really makes sense. it's a story tribute to Neil Gaiman (one of my favorite authors). I know i'll want to add to it some day, maybe...

inspiration junkie
I am that girl often vaugely mentioned in stories and songs. An example is the song Idris Muhamad sang titled "could heaven ever be like this" when he spoke of feeling music in your eyes, he meant my eyes. Or the girl from epenema who goes walking, that was me. Early on in life I discovered my purpose; to find inspiration in every crack and corner of existance, and pollinate society with it such as a honeybee would pollinate a gardren. Music is in the core of my being, growing all around me, budding and flowering as the beat climaxes and evolves into different parts of life. Wonders for the mind to chew on never stop pouring down my cortex like a waterfall into my soul.
God also complimented me with a breathtakingly exciting body, which I consider my tool to explore the world and uncover beauty and inspiration in the crevices of dark places, as well as landscapes of beauty and open spaces. My body itself serves as a canvas, and I decorate it accordingly. When I am seen, people feel the inspiration that I have harvested, and I am more than happy to share,i am so covered in nourishment that it's dripping off of me and to the ground, leaving trails of stories and perplexing thoughts in my path.
I am a child of Mary Poppins. When we met, I was timid and silent. I smiled when the situation queued for such emotion. Her lesson to me was different than the one shown on her famous movie. She touched many other children's lives that were never televised. Every morning, my mother would joyfully wake me up in the process of suiting herself for the day. She would sing songs about the morning beginning with so much glee that I could almost smell fresh baked cookies in her voice. I would wake up singing too, I would prepare myself for the day harmonizing with my mom all the way. I would dance my way to breakfast, and out the door to school. I was a very small child, I wouldn't say I was the shortest, but i was definately the smallest.
My teacher overlooked me. I loved her reguardless, there were so many other children that needed her direct attention. I was a leader of myself. No supervision necessary. Provide me with crayons and an EZ read book and I'm set until nap time. I observed and understood the other children's self created culture.Children are so much more unadulterated, untamed, and unbound by emotion compared to the culture practiced by the fully grown. I prefered the company of adults, which is to be expected by an only child. When they listened, they never had trouble understanding me, and they were careful with my fragile emotions, choosing their words carefully to make sure honesty wouldn't pierce my heart.
I was fertilized in an enviroment where my sensitivity and high receptivity was embraced. Thus making my childlike unadulterated mind an intricate place to grow.
When Mary Poppins came, it was shortly after the recent negative changes my family had wittnessed in me. My mom felt guilty for always having to work, so she hired a nanny. Really it was to snoop around my life and see what could be the root of this new recent distress, but Mary Poppins had other plans. Her presence in my life was only a cameo, as I adapted quick to the gifts she fueled me with, concentrating only on my future discoveries and endevors, using the past only as a map to note the territory explored.

Being an inspiration junkie, I was often compelled to the prison of despair, this was also due to the receptiveness I have to my surroundings. I should have known well that the deep sadness is a wave that too shall pass, though at times it sweeps you in like a tsunami and destroys parts of you, forcing you to recreate them, often differently, attempting to evolve in ways to avoid redundant destruction. This is one of the more forceful ways of change, though sadness will always find its way to seep in through your cracks like a disease, and flood your "stable" place of residence.

This time I was running. The wave was not going to catch me, I would not be overtaken this time. I was revisited by a story I snacked on long ago, and was immediately convinced that the story served as a map. I quickly remembered the story's source in Neil Gaiman's "Fragile Things". I collected my copy of the book from the shelf, several clothes, hygene items, my wallet, a camera, and a notebook. I piled sloppily into my old car, and set off in an undetermined direction. I did not look at the story, in fear I would unconsiously attempt to duplicate it, I went by only my memory of the story, uncertain of many details. I stopped at the atm's and juiced my credit cards for all the cash I could, just as the man in the story had done, and when my car broke down, I started walking, just as the people in the song by Fastball had done. and I prepared myself for an open adventure of no certain course, in seek of lost purpose, and the elixir to mend the cracks in my soul that sadness invites itself to fill, eventually widening the cracks, for more confusion to enter and mangle intricately woven story lines, and warp songs that were created deep in the heart.

Suddenly a warped song didn't sound like such a bad idea, one could call it a remix. My next turn would determine the direction that I would take this wave of sadness. I could find a way to control the elements. to make the wave evaporate, transforming it into a heavy mist, and using the fog to create abstract depictions of things that once semed certain. I could find a way to freeze the wave in it's footsteps, causing it to be an intricate life statue. a story sustained imobile, to be closely observed, giving one the oppertunity to face aspects that would not otherwise be available to view, due to inevitable constant motion. I could attempt to sear the wave with intensity until the last drop seizures on the ground and disolves, replacing the beach with a dry desert. Possibly a welcome alteration to the scenery, though notibly an overly durrastic measure to excecute.likely resulting in more disturbance than inspiration, such as curing a hangnail by removing a hand.
My final desision consisted of the careful construction of a surf board. And the dilligent practice of riding waves. The only variable in the outcome would be myself. My weakness as human is the mystery of the set sequence of events that could indubidubly effect one's performance at any given instance, reguardless of the ammount of practice and familiarity one approaches the task with. Because of this, no previous solutions were discarded. they were stored away safely as alternate routes to reach my destination, inspiration.
Which at the moment had completely consumed me. I realized I was surrounded by an array of epiphanies. My destination could be found in every place I had already searched, yet I was not at all scheduled to fihish my journey at any time. This is when the disclosing of locations where lands were filthy with perplexities to uncover. The era where fertilizing of ideas to grow uninterupted and unaltered took place. I also visited Epenema and caused the inhibitants to feel refreshed by my presence. I sang a songs using every tool I had besides my voice. I crossed many paths of dreamers, thinkers, and creators along my journey, sharing with them every drop of inspiration they could ingest from me, and moving on in an unorganized fassion, though steady and definate in the progress I was making.

The unique perspective I posessed was a refreshing breath taken by only the artists that were wise enough to understand, processed in the mind uncleanly with gaps in concepts that result in several unique interpretations that continue to fuel inspiration in a way that thirst was quenched. At times awkwardly, but always certainly.

With such an impressive account of events that preceeded this moment, as if it were my resume, accomplishments leading to now, I am introduced to you, Neil Gaiman, on the front porch of your home. This trip has led me precisely to you. I am knocking on your door, not because I know that you live here, though I have always wanted to meet you. The circumstances that led me to your door are as follows: The neighbors had the entire area blocked off for a hawaiian style party that was held in the middle of your street last night, and when you returned to your residence, the parking was sketchy. The only place to park would involve blocking a little old car which happen to have belonged to me, and when I found from your nearby neighbors where to kindly ask you to unblock my vehicle, I knocked on your door.

Immediately, you recognize me as inspiration, excited by whatever brings me to you this time. You lead me up to your attic which is full of boxes filled with lose papers and anctient notebooks which serve as a residence for your forgotten creations. My perspective allows me to see things differently, each box is presented to me in a way that allows me to see illustrations of fantasies you created. I reach into my tool inventory and retrieve something given to me by Mary Poppins. I collect your hand and jump into a box in the same way that Mary was able to jump into the chalk paintings. Together we explore your creations, and you explain them to me, realizing that they now posess a different meaning alltogether than when you created the pieces in the first place. You point out that each story in the box is getting accidentally combined with one and other, which is not a completely undesired occurance by you. You remain entertained for several lifetimes as you explore the ways that stories collide together, mutating each piece of work so durrastically that it creates a whole new concept.

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