where is now.

it's eleven o clock, and i just got back from california.
i'm tired, but i can't fall asleep, and i think i might be turning into an insomniac of sorts.
Micheal Jackson is dead and even though I didn't care for him too much, the loss of a person's life is a loss of innocence to the living.
I have realized that life is precious, and that above all else it is temporary.
It isn't ours to keep.
It's like a library book that you check out and have to return to before you can finish it.
I make my fair share of mistakes, and my mother would argue that I've made plenty more, but I can always learn from them. Fix them. Put it behind me, in the past, and look towards tomorrow.
Death isn't like that. You can't die and say oh my bad, let me tell everyone I love them and go to Italy like I always wanted to, and then when I die for real I'll be ready.
When you die, you cease to be.
Life stops at death.
Your past is irrelevant, the word future will no longer be used in conjunction with your name. When you die, your death defines you.
Every breath I take brings me one step closer to my grave.
We are all, essentially, dead men walking. Ahem. I forgot that I was trying to be a feminist. What I meant was dead woman walking. Or dead people. Whatever. You get it.
So do me a favor.
Take that art class you never found time for. Call up the girl you're thinking about and tell her how you really feel. Sing in front of a crowd. Splurge.
Michael Jackson may be dead, but we are alive.
We might as well live.