Sketchbook 29 - Memories from My Practice Books

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Have you ever had one of those days where memories crawl under your skin like persistent insects? It's scorching hot, and during every attempted nap, my exes invade my consciousness, picking away at who I am. That haunting line from Daughter's "Youth" keeps echoing: "Setting fire to our insides for fun, collecting names of the lovers that went wrong." Funny how music finds you when you're most vulnerable.

Look at her – everyone might think she's dabbing, but no. She's too old for that millennial nonsense. She's a hippie, lost in her own moment, dancing with those peculiar fingers of hers. Beautiful in her own way, I suppose.

I've started talking to my imaginary dickhead friends lately (if you catch my drift – think cover and snow). The weird part? It's actually making me happy. Who knows how long this self-delusion will last, but I'm riding this wave while it's here.

You should see my Japanese notebook – it's becoming less about language practice and more about artistic rebellion. There's this bird I drew, meant to have more grit, meant to soar. If only he'd kept his word – that bird would've been magnificent, dripping in deeper reds and promised potential.

These sketches? Pure hospital waiting room therapy from December '20. Indian hospitals have a way of making time stretch like melting plastic. And here, bleeding through my French conjugations, are more moments stolen from actual studying.

 

Through my mind's garden they wander,

Thoughts floating like clouds,

Dreams of better halves and almost-weres,
City folks carrying their weights.

There's this one – a figure collapsed next to "not that deep" carved into earth. 

And finally, sunset painting the mills in colors they never asked for.

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