Last night, I slept with this large-sized sketchpad I bought in Dumaguete last year.
I took it out from the closet yesterday.
Only four of its pages had writings in them.
The first page had this crazy drawing of my palm I traced with a pencil. Inside the palm is an unforgivable version of a street lamp. The rest of the page had writings I can hardly read except:
twin signages, to dumaguete (arrow), to bacolod (arrow).
The next two pages were lyrics of KT Tunstall songs I transcribed.
The fourth page had pull-out sentences from poems of Mark Haddon in The Talking Horse and the Sad Girl and the Village Under the Sea.
Colleague (and yen's hubby) Dx got all confused why I had to buy the sketchpad, knowing I had no slightest talent whatsoever in visual art. No reason, I told him and proceeded to distract him with questions about work.
Maybe it was the texture of the pages. Or maybe it was because I had to comfort myself by getting something I can buy after seeing that really pricey tag on a Margaret Atwood book. Or maybe because I remembered my elder sister and her accumulated drawings of a happy family.
And if I remember right, I slept with a prayer that all those words would form hazy patterns I would later call a happy dream when I wake up the next day.