Granted, I attended an art preschool while my father draws on CAD for his life and my mother’s paintings are hung up in my grandmother’s house.  Perhaps I do have the genetics to one day own a masterpiece sketchbook, but for now, I am glad to have started on my first sketchbook dedicated only for drawing exercises, drawing practice, and drawing (I really can’t say the same for my actual first sketchbook, since 80% is just lecture notes anyway).  I just got back to my room after my drawing class, and needless to say, Dave never ceases to impress me with his God-given talent in drawing which transfers over to his incredible teaching techniques.

I just wanted to write about drawing.  I hope I can read this ten years from now and see where I’ve come from and where I can go.  It’s a beautiful day outside, and I feel great.

I turned thirteen and moved to Northern Virginia.  It has been a great home to me.  I have made impressions upon hundreds and received impressions from thousands, and yet, it has become so difficult to recall those who have left me a lasting, positive impression.  Saints have turned into grime, devils into glory, and for some, douche-bags made their way to fair maturity only to regress back to part-infancy — a curiously hollow gap in the mould — as if everyone followed the ever-changing course of varying tides, changing compositions, bipolar immaturities.

Now I turn nineteen with a firmer grasp on the nature of people: growing up defiles innocence but especially the innocence I once perceived from living on a planet that never knew the rising levels of pain and mourning with every year passing by — I just wanted to be older because I had never been older.  Now I turn nineteen with a firm disgust with how we treat one another.  Happy birthday.

May I make no return nor divergence back
This city lacks future embedded in culture
There mustn’t be more empty endorsements
But I have learnt when to leave; thank you.

Though my thoughts are never thorough and thorns of little red roses intermingle amongst those of abundant yellows, reds glow brighter than yellows, the reds glow brighter than the yellows.  And perhaps I am under some kind of delusion that makes me perceive such orderly pattern of woven stems as disorder and pollution, unlikely for rocks to bloom out of icebergs yet I still see pebbles circumstancing all whites which weather down my weakly wantings.

I have encountered two different adventures,
Which have split my heart;
Made me wonder what’s factual
And what’s certain.

But in no means am I finished.  I am not a good writer, but I will be some day — in minuscule plays-on-words, grand world-changers, and everything in-between.

When I am exhausted, depleted, finished: I hope they will remember me not as a writer, not as an artist, nor as an architect, but as a man who managed to do a little more good than harm to all.

But this morning, he wakes up and walks up to find the shelter
Which had sheltered him once too much
And had said good-bye and again greeted this lost traveller
And had said good-bye and again greeted this lost traveller
And he opened the door once again

He felt at home
Comforted, appreciated, placated, warm
Knowing he will be leaving soon
And he left
Knowing he will be returning soon