Paper Carvings

On free afternoons, I like to stay in cafés. I don’t particularly go there for the coffee — I’m not much of a coffee snob, though I do drink coffee on the regular, unfortunately — I go there for a place to sit, for the ambiance. The drink and dessert are just a bonus. When I do this, I’m always alone. This is my alone time. Naturally in such places, people gather.

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I still don’t know what I want to do. I don’t think my problem is unique: I don’t want to claim that out of the many people who have ever lived on this earth, I’m one of the special few who have experienced this, because I know that’s not true. I feel like I’m in a strange time in my life where I’m stuck between two eras: my childhood and my adulthood.

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I’ve always had a journal for as long as I can remember. My earliest memory of a journal was back in third grade. We were tasked with keeping a diary as a requirement for one of my classes. Each section was assigned a color for their diary covers: my section was yellow. I wrote about my daily life — I remember writing about that one time when a man picked up a dropped twenty-peso bill in front of me on the street.

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