Gia Raquel

I haven’t been able to finish my third notebook. For quite a while, I could manage to crank out a poem every day, a blog post every week. I pursued all corners of the arts, attempting to leave no rock unturned. And here I am, one year later with dozens of empty pages in a beautiful red leather notebook.

Countless events have occurred in this new year alone. I have wells to dip in for inspiration, but there seems to be absolutely no drive. I fear that the more I wait, the more I will forget how to write. The fear builds, but my motivation stands. What has happened?

Maybe I am writing now as an attempt to forget about my responsibilities for the night. I think that is a part of it. But I also think I need to kick myself awake and remember what it felt like to be the artist I used to be. I can use the excuse that I have just focused on a different aspect of art this year. Hell, I’m almost up to 24 paintings and drawings, so that has to count for something. Yet, that does not seem to satisfy the discontent I possess for myself.

I want to talk about what happened today on the bus. Squished against a window, the vehicle was filled to the brim with girls singing and screaming. I put in my earbuds, shot up the volume, and hoped it would be able to drown out the background noise. Trees. Buildings. Cars. Roads. Everything becomes so interesting when you watch it through a moving window. Everything feels a little less claustrophobic when you can hear one voice echoing in both ears. I realized, I’ve forgotten how remarkable I am. At the climax of the song, my entire body resonated with waves of shivers. I had forgotten what that felt like. It was a moment of complete and pure existence. A moment where I could appreciate my own breathing, and acknowledge that I was alive and I was okay.

Do you recall that concert you went to? The one with the band that you fell in love with when you heard their first song? The one that made you feel like you were home even as you ventured further and further from your front door? Do you remember the people screaming next to you? How their eyes lit up, along with yours, while the first song played? How their brows furrowed in worry, hoping for an encore? There came a precise time frame where you decided to put your phone away. You could live without recording one song or posting another video on social media. You stood there in that crowd and felt raw. You felt your eyes take over your whole face, relishing in the sight in front of you. You didn’t want to miss this. You didn’t want this feeling to go away. It reminded you of how much you missed recognizing your own existence.

I’ve come to the realization that I’ve used my notebooks as homes throughout their lifespans. But this year was different because I became my own home. For the first time in a long time, I decided to move back into my body and redecorate the place from the last time I had abandoned it. Although I am not happy with my production as a writer for this year, I am recreating myself before I touch those leather-bound pages again. They have felt so foreign to me because I don’t remember living there. I’ve changed so much over the length of its existence that it feels like an email chain corresponding among a million strangers.

I miss feeling at home within my own notebook- my own writing. I guess that’s why I’m typing this. Cheers to us, and to new a chapter in this old notebook.