A card

And I mean it.

An encouragement

Hey, You.

I can't stop thinking about the future and what awaits me and generation of nowadays.

There was a quote I fall in love with that said:

“People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.” (High Fidelity)

And that's what made me think. The styles, the music, the books and writers we have now, they all are a little bit broken, and you can even say that's the only way to gain popularity. But i really don't want to be like that. I don't want to write sad stories about girls that are left in misery and boys that don't even know what they want from life. Words are the one thing that remains after writers death, so would you want them be sad and frustrating? I want them to heal, to encourage, to help. And I want them to associate with me. That’s how I’ll always be in the hearts of the persons I love. That's what I believe in.

But maybe that’s not so important now. We are young, we are wild and we are free. This is our chance to live. This is what counts. I won't lie, there will be dozens of chances still left for you, but if you have the courage, don't waste your time. Smile. Live. Laugh. Sing. Dance. Have sex. Live like you mean it. Live like every moment is the one you were looking forward all your life.

*Me

I think he knew and that's what broke him.

Hey, pretty one. I wish you'd know why I write this. Maybe you do. But I'm happy. Because i can write again. Because I know he listens. I think he knew and that's what broke him. His name was Tuesday. He would through arrows of anger towards you if you giggle or say some ridiculous comment about his name, but still, everyone laughed, no one believed and he still threw arrows sometimes just because of habit. The name was the single interesting part of him. He was a loner. Sometimes I sat across him on that poor excuse of a table we had and thought that his name is suited for him. He was exactly like Tuesday. Mondays are the hard beginning, when all you can hope for is for the week to process as fast as it could. On Monday everyone waits for Wednesday, while it's the little Friday they say. Thursdays are when you feel obnoxious, Fridays are when you celebrate, Saturday and Sunday, you don't even have to describe them, they are what makes all week worth while. So what happens to Tuesday? It gets lost and unnoticed, that's what. And I can tell you, this boy was totally lost. He was my neighbor. I was his girl next door, though, a little less fancy, a little less sexy and a little less broken. And I knew he wouldn't want it any other way, because he was an artist, not a geek with millions of fantasies about girls in improper way. He was a poet. A good one. A sad one. Although that's inseparable, isn't it? Every good poet has his heart broken. On the first family, neighbor meeting I asked him on which day had he born. He looked at me with a sad smile on his lips and said that it was Thursday. It made me even more curious about his name, but he never said a thing about why he has a name of a day. (Sometime later my sister asked him the same question and his answer was completely different. He liked to play with my brains like that.) If there was a day when he wasn't at school it was Tuesday. You could ask him all you want but he'll never tell you where he goes on these days. After a while I just laughed it off and said that he just want to be more mysterious then he already is, his name, the days, no coincidence. He smiled and stayed quiet. He liked it this way. After school he went to college somewhere far away from our homes. He still sent me a letter every now and then, but it was just a formality. (A little bit later he admitted that I was his key to keep sane.) I wrote him back, babbling and chatting, but never mentioning the feelings I get from the empty seat across our poor excuse of a table. That was my key for keeping it sane. He died when he was 20, still in the college, still young and still broken. He died on Tuesday. Every mention of Tuesday, every Tuesday made me think of him. He surely is sitting somewhere on the cloud looking down on me with that sad smile and writing poetry. He probably knows that I can't keep him out of my head; he probably feels joy on that. Tuesday sees how I'm reading his poetry every night before drifting to sleep. He knows that soon everyone will be able to buy it, because I wished to tell people the story of his heart. And every syllable, every rank, every versa was as beautiful as his smile. I got money for something he wrote, and I knew he wouldn't care. Sometime I think that's why he even wrote it, so I had something to do, when he is not around. So I lived on with his words in my heart and waited for the moment to come. For the moment he described in his last poem. For the moment when "I'll be waiting for you" will be said aloud and the "I'll show you why" will become reality.

A promise

Hello, heart.

I think about you frequently. Just trying to figure out if you're still here.

I don't really believe that in your life exists a person you can force out, even forget. That's my only hope right now.

With love,

It takes two to make it work

Hey, you.

I just had to write this down. For me, for you and just because.

He is amazing because he is more then he shows the world and you love it, - you are the only one who knows that.

He is nothing like those foolish guys that try to show the world how much better they are then anyone else, although, they don't even understand that there is n o s u c h a t h i n g - better then.

He is a mystery, your mystery.

Do not underestimate that.

You'll have trouble, cause in the end he is just like any other person with his own fears and problems, but you are the one he is not afraid to open up, so don't hurt him. And i promise if you do that, if you stand by him in troubles and moments of happiness, he will never hurt you.

He'll be your sun, your friend, your brother and lover. Boys like this are worth more then any money could ever buy. They are worth your heart.

Happy New Year

Hey, pretty one.

So it's New Year again. And I have so much to wish you, but honestly I hope that someone have already sent their love and kisses to you. Still, honey, be happy this year. Just as happy as you get, when you hear that special song. You know - the one that gets your heart to melt? You probably are not aware of what I am talking right now, but soon you'll just hear it again in the radio and you'll know the feeling, and will never forget the song. It's like every string of your body and soul relaxes. It just breaths in and out, in and out, and on that perfect, pure moment you just smile. So I want those moments a lot more in your life this year. Song or no song, just enjoy your life.

Don't get scared when something new clings to your door. Be cautious, take it slow, but don't turn it down just because of fear. If you want, I'll help you with that.

Have fun!

With love, Evita.