as i had read deeper into his journal, some of the writing had form of poems, to my young age it seemed he delt with escapism, feeling of being trapped and lured into this steel teath trap. he had wrote " you can think you know someone then relize it was only your own reflection in the mirror". he had seemed to want to defy the world and disband logic. He had talked about love alot, how it seems dead to most people they used it as their leash and thier chain of locks. he talked about the first girl he had ever kissed, she was spanish and beautiful, he name was lidnsay brooks. He had walked her home every day after school, he could have walked the shorter route with other people, but he knew his place. one day he had kissed her on the bus in front of everyone, on the way home she had asking questions quickly, in the middle she had said "will you go out with me" with out thinking he had said no, he felt the slip of the tongue. 1  month later she had moved away. he had said that every one had moved away when he was young, like all of his friends boxed up and left to be never heard from again."The word friends, it ends in end". this was one phrase like many, he felt all friends turened on him in times, times he felt accepting and comfortable. many patterns in his art he talked about he had said he startys from the center it spreads, like life like a virus a curse of inspiration and more. many friends from his friend depicting him a selfless and accepting..I knew from that day he had left these here for me to educate myself. to know what he had know the defintion of colors and sides and religion, and selfs, the struggle and the bloodshed.the personal war he had battled was purley uphill and muddy, with people onthew top hurling rock down, one behind him shoving him and steping over him. he had seemed his kindness had bveen taken advantage of, in that way he grew sour, illusional. He had wrote in one black leather journal " i am one, and only, infinte, zero, darkness and light, vision and insight". I had a feeling in the botom of my heart he was happy i think he had went to paris, sick are cured, they have their place there paint stained finger tips, hacking at his pages of continual lifes work. he ahd went to trace the footstepsd of henery miller and utter the word of vincent. in part he had talked about life is a dream, when you die you wake up. he tyalked when he had grown up and that things went array, hew felt so detached and miserable he suffered and calling an art, he certanily dident think much of women, except for a few, few he had seen realness and sincerity. talkes about the pain and struggloe to change and how every one remarked how hard it was.He had metioned much of anita, she seemed a charm and a debt, at times he talked in absoultle love of her, times of turning away, times he defyed her in his mind was beyond her, times he wanted to not let go, times he wanted to hold her, she turned her back. times he dident care she'd come back to him. he sworn to never forget her and wishing to love her, he had said he signed a paper with the marking your soul, paper she had kept. seemed many of his wishes, and actions went according to plan, the plan went to escape and dissolve and dissapear and diminsh, he travel to colorade, arizona, germany, frange, idaho, oregon. he had said " i feel i have no home, but in my uncontempt heart"