A Writer's Notebook

             A year has passed already since I’ve started to feel this huge emptiness in my mind. I’m unsure about why this is happening to me, which makes me feel more scared and anxious about my feelings. But I know for sure that there is a big hole through which all of my souls and spirits sink out. I started to ponder upon my past, although I was afraid how much it would pain me. My mind takes me back to exactly a year ago, when I lived a cosmopolitan life in New York.

“The most important thing in design is simplicity. Once that’s lost, it ought to go straight toward the trash bin.”

“I’d like to see your work by tomorrow. Please don’t roll your eyes. In the real world, you’re not going to have all the time in the world to create something, ” remarked the professor condescendingly.

Six days had passed since I had had a restful sleep.

When I heard him giving us another assignment, I really wanted to kill him. But I stayed quiet because everyone else only groaned in silence, although many had sustained dark bags under their eyes all semester. Yet, they kept strong as if they were machines, endlessly producing things creatively. On my desk, there were countless empty coffee cups and energy drink cans rolling around in such an ugly manner. Especially, the design on the can that reads, “MONSTER,” painted with some sort of green and red thunder motif made my eyes hurt. I had many horrible experiences, and I felt dying. So, I came back home.

             I came into my room to sleep. Hours later, insomnia struck again. I thought I might as well listen to some old music and wondered if my brother still had CDs in his room. He was away at baseball camp for the summer. We used to be close. But as I had left home for college and was too busy with school, and as he started to become more private, as I imagine boys typically change in high school, we drifted apart. Except for his occasional Facebook posts, I realized how little I knew about who he was.  

As I stepped into the room, I knew it would be a good place to start. In the corner, there were his drum set and a poster of the periodic table. As I got into art and literature, he became so interested in math and science, which I could not share with him. On the shelves there were tons of science and math books, and his old red Phillies baseball hat.

In search for CDs, I opened the shelves of his desk and came across a black leather notebook. Inside it said, “A Writer’s Notebook.” This must be someone else’s, I thought. Feeling curious, I opened the middle, and on the page there were notes. 

 I know that you don't like rap music that are always the same. I think I don't like it either. This is surely not enough to stimulate your long-lost senses. The interesting thing is there are people who become more alive and heated when they listen to this kind of music. That's why they do it for their entire life.

‘What the…?’

I could never expect my brother to write randomly, especially in a “writer’s” notebook. He’s always been a math and science geek. .

 The real reason I hate rap songs…It's not because of the repeating lyrics or stupid cacophonies. It was when I was in middle school. Everyone always listened to rap music. I was a newcomer in the class and I invited my classmates to my birthday party. Surprisingly, many students came to have lunch. However, before they were served dessert, they all left.

           I was surprised to read this. I thought my brother loved rap. He was always blasting from his room with his friends. My brother had always been well liked, I thought. He often had his friends over at our house and was always playing sports or doing things in schools. I took the notebook back to my room and started to flip through the pages. There were tickets to a movie he went to, and he wrote:

I don’t care

What they’re going to say

Let the storm rage on,

The cold never bothered me anyway

             Oh, I’d heard this cheesy song before.

Is there something wrong with me? When K looks at me, I get nervous. My heart beats faster than ever. The contours of K’s face are just perfect. I find myself thinking about K when my mind wanders.

        Eww. Maybe I shouldn’t be reading this, I thought.

With his baseball glove on his hand, he just smiled while he stood beside the big tree. Under the warm shadow of the tree, we were in absolute peace. Being caressed by the nice summer breeze while it whistled through the green grass, I was happier than any moment in my life.

This must be an idea for a novel. I was impressed at how interesting it was for him to write from the girl’s point of view. I flipped through more notes and came across a small photograph. It looked as if it had been cut from a larger one. It was a face of an unfamiliar boy who smiled back at me.

My brother came home from camp the next week. When I saw him, I gave him a smile, hoping that he would somehow know that I loved and supported him no matter what, and that I would always be here for him.

He smiled back.