.1.

As she set down her coffee and opened a new document, she had every intention of writing a story of hope, of happiness. Characters had been carefully developed, scenarios written out in detail, and an ending that could only be described as perfect planned. All she had to do was clean it up a little, put it together, and she would hopefully have something worthy to send out in the envelopes already addressed to publishers.
She quickly began clicking away, descriptions of places and people she could only ever imagine knowing. Making sure to add little quirks and nuances to make those in the story more real, she noticed that they seemed to be developing the personalities of people she knew- far from the perfect creatures she had mapped out. This didn't discourage her, but made her wonder if the flawless creation she had been working diligently on for months was really as wonderful as originally thought.
After 75 pages quickly flew by, she decided that it was about time to proofread. She almost could not believe the repulsiveness she found herself reading. Had she really written this? It seemed more like a poorly written Teen Romance book than the prodigious story she had planned. Rubbing her eyes out of frustration, she groaned out loud, ad reached over for her cigarettes.
Starring off into space, she wondered where she went wrong. She knew deep inside that the talent was in her, that she had a story to give to the world, but apparently it wasn't the one she thought it was. Now all she had to do was figure out what was.
Deciding that fresh air might help clear her head, she pulled on her shoes, put on her headphones, and ventured out into the world. Even with the drums pulsing against her eardrums, and the bass line so heavy she could feel it in her head, she took in the world around her, looking for inspiration and details. Children playing in their yards, mothers planting flower beds, fathers washing cars, and dogs chasing their tails. Simple, mundane, yet real aspects of life that she hadn't thought of when plotting her tale of the perfect life.
As she continued on her journey, the landscape changed. She saw teenagers hanging out around a car, one young girl vogueing to whatever sounds were coming out of the speakers. A little further on, peering down an alley, she saw two men, huddled together near a dumpster. She couldn't tell what they were up to, but it was no doubt something that wouldn't have any place in the original narrative she had created.
A young man, standing near an abandoned warehouse, playing a battered acoustic guitar, caught her eye. His hair was falling into his eyes, and he attempted to smile as he sang for the people who passed, some throwing spare change his way. She stopped to watch him, taking off her headphones to experience everything he was giving to his not so captive audience. Immediately she was drawn into him. The sound flowing from the dilapidated instrument seemed impossible. Golden notes seemed to hang in the air as his fingers swiftly shifted over the strings. He was humming along with the melody, occasionally singing a few words. His voice was raw and imperfect. Slowly she took in the details of the boy, from his worn sneakers and fraying jeans, to the faded t-shirt that was too small and washed out flannel shirt that was too big. His hair was dark and choppy- an obvious self given cut, but it fit perfectly with his oval shaped face. His lips were uneven- the bottom was larger than the top, but you couldn't tell when he smiled- which also caused the corners of his eyes to curl up, losing their wideness. The blue orbs that peered out at her seemed inconceivable. The first thought that crossed her mind were that they were the same color as the water in Monet's Water Lilies. So dark and deep, she was lost in them, not realizing he had finished his song until he cleared his throat and looked up at the sky, a slight blush crossing his face.