Inspiration. I think that's the message she was trying to send to me. 
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The scribbles if sentences, phrases and singular words written inside packs of cigarettes. Thats what I found cleaning out my room. Dozens if them. Maybe even close to a hundred. Why was it that I took the time to write all these down and never once used them in my work? Did I feel them not to be good enough? There were the remnants of my thoughts. It had once been so urgent to get them down on paper. They had ended up thrown in a box under my bed. 

"petals from flowers withered away. 
scent dissolved with aching time"

They were all just words. Why did I find these so important? Writing was natural to me, defined me. Who else could I tell all my secrets to besides my moleskin? My journal knew more about me than I did. Every night,  in the middle of the night is when I did my best work. It was at that time the words would spill and flood out of me barely in my mind before my pen hit the paper. How many pens have I caused to run out of ink? How many notebooks had I filled my thoughts? 

I am not obstinate to anything except the words I feel. Why pay for therapy when I can pay a dollar for a notebook, a dollar for a package of pens. Therapy enough for me. 

Twisted; I guess that's how I feel. Like death has crept up behind me but somehow I turn around before he can scare me. I guess I'm an escape artist in a sense. It's not that I'm suicidal. Not that at all. It's that I'm programed to be suicidal. My illness is on the line of suicidal. 

No, I'm not suicidal. I don't want to die. I dont want to be buried into a cold ground. My body decomposed, eaten up by maggots. I don't want to be turned to ashes. Without even the ...... of a phoenix. I will not rise from the ashes. Permanent December. That's all it is to me. I feel the cold air in the middle of august. I feel it enveloping my  bones, freezing me. 

Until the girl with the fire red hair. How did she get here? The flowers in the garden is where she rose from. Screaming at me to try harder. Be bigger, better. 

She wrote me letters. 

Dear Sam, 
Remember the time when life was like a beautiful symphony. Playing a lovely melody in your ear. I know you can feel like that again, Sam. I can feel it in you and I see it in your eyes. I know you want to go back to that, and you will. Just give it time. 

Yours truly. 

It was her letters that gave me inspiration. 
Inspiration. I think that's the message she was trying to send to me.