roots
I brought a blank notebook - a sketchbook to be more precise,
the first time I arrived here in America. It was actually an old Christmas gift from one of my
aunts. I was into drawing back then, and
she probably thought the gift would be appropriate since I’ve made a bunch of
silly superhero comics before I started high school. It was one of my favorite
pastimes, no doubt. Long before music
and accounting.
But anyways, barely any sketches actually made it to the book. Somehow
the pages ended up with words and dates, and with every turn; my days were mirrored
in some sort of "art-like" fluidity. As if my cheap pen was a brush - painting a picture
of my thoughts amidst complex emotions. Over time, it became a much more
serious medium of expression, and there was barely any room for large comic
bubbles and dorky little masked dudes. Just words - some written larger and deeper, others soft and gentle. It mirrored the
loss of love, friends, and quite often; the unrest of being someplace I didn’t
want to be in. I was journaling my transition – my first few months in an
alien place called America.
The entries barely spoke of tourist spots and better standards of living. Half of the time I was caught reminiscing what I
left behind, and what I’m missing. At times it even spoke of the rage coming
from my inability to enact my own decisions. Then of course, there was the
occasional "what ifs", "shouda, coulda woudas", and the "if onlys". It was like a drama
novel, really. Only without the press and publicity.
Six years later, I am still here, and quite honestly I
haven’t written anything in the book in about five or so. Not because everything from then on was
smooth-sailing-sunny-sky-everyday-life, but I guess somehow the fire in me just
died. The rage and the rebellion somehow got replaced with practicality,
conformity and other priorities. It might not have been the best option to act
that way, but it gave me some sort of peace- whether temporary or not.
To this day, that old sketchbook stands as a reminder of who
I am, and what I’ve given up just to be here. And I guess now that I face much more complex
decisions in life, it’s nice to have a moments rest to look back on the things
I’ve gone through and see how far I’ve made it. People say you can’t really go anywhere without knowing where you came
from.. well that little drawing book.. pretty much says it all.
