I looked up at the sky and saw my life flash before my eyes. I realized I had been blind up until this moment. I took some time to look around me to see the beautiful faces of artists, singers, and poets taking advantage of their youth. Am I one of them? My thoughts tend to run like a river, ever constant and ever changing. I found refuge in writing my thoughts down before they became as elusive as the wind. I looked upon these faces, laughing and alive and realized I was laughing too. I was more alive than ever. I was happier than ever. The Bay Area wind swept us all up into a whirl of music and dancing, dancing and laughing, laughing and singing. Reciting Ginsberg's America and quoting bad cult films we wish we could forget. There was nothing like being young and surrounded by new friends, each being a true individual. A band of outcasts we called ourselves.
Marina, my precious painter who looks as if she has just arrived in a time machine circa 1954. She recited lines from On the Road daily and together we went back to a time where art was nothing more than life.
Tricia, my little printmaking genius who claims she's met Banksy. None of us believe her.
Emily, possibly the brightest girl I have ever met. She was born to write. She is Charles Bukowski incarnated. Her words had always been my thoughts. I adored her for it.
Chloe, my spunky girl from LA who looks as if she is against any superficiality LA might stand for, dressing herself in mostly black and not showing off any skin. I was very surprised to learn she loves her hometown. We would both transform into little smitten school-girls at any mention of Tim Burton.
David, my partner in crime, my savior, my light. David from LA. In other words, anti-LA. He and Chloe had always gotten into fights over LA. I would secretly always be on his side. LA had never been my scene. David was the artist I always wish I could be. His art just comes to him. He never thinks. He lets himself go while the pen dances on top of the paper. It is a beautiful thing, the pen moving and creating a vision on a piece of white sketchbook paper. One line is added to another creating a picture, a symbol, anything. We would pose for him only to be replaced by caricatured creatures of ourselves. His art always had a mysterious effect to it. You never knew where it stopped or where it began. His art was unfinished, overcomplicated, and ingenious. Just like him, and in many ways a lot like us.
And then there was Josie. Last but certainly not least. She was my moon in a starry sky. She wrote poems that made one's heart scream from the inside. She wrote of unrequited love, nostalgia, and hopelessness. I remember one night she cried in my arms while I held her. I cried for her. Then, after a while, we realized we were crying for absolutely no reason and tears soon turned into laughs. She made life a different battle for me. She changed the game I played. It was exciting and I felt I was winning the battle and beating the game. I had found my confidante, my companion, my comrade.
This was my life at the California College of Arts Pre-College Program. They were my life. Being young and alive in San Francisco. Together under the same tree we sat. Laughing and talking of the things we hate and of the things we love. Laughing at artists before us. Laughing at musicians before us. Laughing at writers and poets before us. Laughing at ourselves. We never took ourselves very seriously for that matter. Instead we believed in life and youth and wisdom and love and Kerouac. We saw ourselves in each other. Our differences were what united us.
I see now that through each other we found parts of ourselves we knew existed only in the inner-workings of our minds. I see now that they have forced me to transform into my true self. I see now that the world as I knew it had been shaken, and everything inside of it came pouring down on me like the rain. But together we parted the clouds, and stood smiling at the Sun because for once in our lives we felt free to be ourselves.
On the last night we told one another we would always have San Francisco. Looking back up at the sky, I see now that San Francisco will always have us, and that we will always have each other.
Ok, so I think it's definitely really well written and I love all the figurative language and allusions you put in there, but you might consider giving it an intro. It seems like it pulls the reader along for too long without them really knowing what they are reading about, so it's a little frustrating. Until you told me they were your friends from an art school program, I wasn't sure if they were real people or your friends or some faces you were seeing in the sky. I was confused is pretty much what I'm trying to say. It's a great idea though, just tweak your organization a bit in my opinion. Take a look at my essays if you get a chance
