Wiling away rainy hours with my sketchbook. It has been an outlet to ponder over things I've been learning, reading, seeing, feeling, and scheming. I've always been something of a journaler, writing down thoughts and stories of my life. I love the written word. The way it can capture so much and hold on to a feeling far beyond the moment it is recorded. But every so often, words run short. As I grow more confident with my pencil and brush, memories I'm afraid of forgetting and sentiments beyond expression gain new life in swipes of color and drags of charcoal. And siga, siga, my sketchbook memories are helping me form new plans, dreams, and schemes. I carry it with everywhere lately, clutching to it like a toddler totes a security blanket. If I can dream these things, I can make them happen I tell myself. More sketches, more listening to what is happening around me, more rainy afternoons literally creating dreams on my paper, fabric, and whatever else I can get my hands on. Bold moments of color and vivacity next to seemingly bland pencil drawings. So is the nature of life right now. Rising and falling with the ebbs and flows of limbo.
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