I sat for a long time, staring at the half-filled sketchbook in front of me. The pungent stench of cigarettes, alcohol, and lonliness filled my nose. Feeling nostalgic, I flipped the pages backward, taking my time to study the emptiness of the sketches. Mostly roughed out and unfinished ideas, various faces drawn from random memories. Some pages were full of drawings and scribblings of notes on what I can do to improve my craft. Others were simply cries for help. Shouting to the reader to notice. Pathetic begging.
Farther back I went, at a quicker pace now, somewhat embarrassed by the quality of my latest work. Seeing figures and faces pulled from the recesses of my brain stirred memories I had forgotten. Memories I had pushed away, or fought to keep contained. Here and there, too, were scrawlings in some form of cursive that I have always tried to master. Important things to remember when the only available shred of paper at the moment was my sketchbook. Another time and place in the odd and often intolerable truth that has become my life.