Found an old notebook with old doodles and old words with lost meaning. I was obsessed with drawing anime things, and watching my classmate trace over some random character on the computer screen today, reminded me of how Ryna told me she used to trace over Sailor Moon & Tuxedo Mask on the TV screen and that’s how she started drawing anime things–I low-key envied her anime skills back then and 15 years later, my sad attempts are no match to her pro skills in middle school(second photo) Yes, she drew that in middle school, she’s always been so humble about her artistic side, so I’ll show it off for her lolz. But srsly.

I couldn’t help but laugh when I found my drawing, it brought me back to that emo teenage girl who would doodle and write whatever relatable pop punk lyrics and obscure thoughts came to mind all over her composition notebook and high school planners. Taking Back Sunday, Jimmy Eat World, The Ataris, All American Rejects, Green Day, The Starting Line, Yellowcard, New Found Glory, Simple Plan. Lyph3.

I’ve been drawing more with light than with a pen or pencil these days, and while sketchbooks have been required for all my courses, I haven’t drawn or collaged for leisure in forever.

Simply, I miss the meditative dance of the pencil and eraser to a Spotify playlist, and sculpting an image with my hands and graphite. I want to create more.

I miss making art that wouldn’t be graded or critiqued, that needed no revisions or rubric, that wasn’t assigned as an academic project or required a deadline. No doubt, I love what I do*cue Asher Roth’s “I Love College,” * I just miss creating for the sake of creating, I miss art for the sake of self-expression, I miss art for the sake of art. This unwavering devotion to the craft consumes your soul.

Lol sake is beginning to look like Sake, as in that Japanese alcoholic beverage that tells me I should Karaoke.

Wait that’s Soju. And all drinks. Huh.

2:23AM, I’m back at home while my sister & Siah are on the East Coast, briefly reunited with my bed, and strangely, I find myself in the same old routine when witching hour creeps up and my brain insists on not shutting the F up, volume turned up for no beneficial reason and my stream of consciousness steadily flows over the soft whirl of this tower fan like a satin window curtain, whose muffled voice increases and reminds me of whatever responsibilities adulting has in store for me tomorrow, repeating those five iridescent words, the old mantra:



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