Memories are a tricky thing.
I have a lot of bad ones. I could make a list of them.
I remember clearly what happened in those sad moments; how I felt, even what I thought. They left marks all over me and sometimes, they show up in my mind without invitation.
Happy memories, though, are different.
They are scattered around my history, a few glimpses of moments I can’t remember quite well. Some of them are deeply attached to important people in my life — my grandparents, my mother, old friends… others are just an amount of colors, smells and fragmented images.
My happiest memory isn’t exactly a memory. It’s more a collection of them.
See, I love drawing. It’s one of the most essential parts of myself. It always had been, even if it took me a while to realize it.
I have a lot of memories of drawing.
It’s funny to think that my cherished memories are not those in which I am surrounded by my loved ones.
They are those moments of solitude — me, a pencil, a notebook and the urging fire of inspiration — , moments when I’d spent hours in silence, leaning over a piece of paper, trying (and most of the time, failing) to express an idea too complex for my capabilities at the time.
I enjoyed drawing pretty girls, extravagant gowns and fanarts of my favorite books and TV shows.
Some things never change.
When I finished, I would proudly look at my art and then run to show it to my mother — who was, and perhaps still is, my biggest supporter.
Some things really never change.
I was so young. So naive. So easily pleased by an ugly drawing.
After receiving my compliment — compliments were so important for a needy child like me — I’d put my art in a folder, full of other drawings.
My treasure.
Each piece of paper in that folder was precious to me, the result of hours of non-stop effort.
I remember those moments quite well.
The simplicity of life back then. The lack of worry, sadness, trauma. The promise of a bright future.
And the ever-growing wish to do this for the rest of my life — spend hours and hours and hours simply drawing.
I draw so much less nowadays. Now, I spend hours and hours and hours working for other people, doing everything, except the things I want.
But I keep those memories close. And, perhaps, they’re still a promise of a better future.
