Reverse Psychology

28: Drawing book.

I don't know what to say, nor do I have anything to say except maybe finally!!!
Before we carry on, this question just popped into my head.
At what chapter did you decide you would like to see where this book is heading or at least like to read the book.
BUBBLES
I have a drawing book.

My drawing book is ununiquely silver with black clasps for a spine. It looks like nothing special with its white pages and little scribbles at every bottom but to me it is the world.

My drawing book holds parts of my heart too heavy to carry, too honest to be tainted and too genuine to be forgotten in its little white pages which looked ordinary.

I drew on those little pages to remember the feel of the sun on my skin the last time I loved my mom, to remember the enthusiasm of my eight year old self whenever my dad brought home a new doll, to remember the flower petals I sniffed in the backyard of my child home and so many more lifetimes I have lived.

Those lifetimes seemed like a dream, an augmentation of reality but why do memories that are mine seem so foreign? The answer to that is I was beginning to forget; there's only so much you can keep from your childhood. So when Blossom grinned at me one Christmas morning and handed me my drawing book, I had the solution on how to remember; I had to draw my memories out the way I remembered.

I cried the first time I put pen to paper. I drew my childhood, the time when I was my happiest. I captured my eight year old stupor at 4k. Whenever I painted a sun, I felt the heat radiating off my skin. Whenever I drew a smile; I remembered what if felt like to be genuinely happy and whenever I drew my mom; I remembered how much I used to love her. And how much she loved me too.

I looked at those endearing images, flipped through my memories on pages and I was smiling. Staring into the intimate parts of my heart no one but me has seen.

But as I stared at the latest artwork of mine, whilst hiding in the dark corners of my room, I wondered, why did I want to savour the memory of a blonde boy staring up at the coloured ceiling and grinning.
_________

"You really had to show up now, I was making a point." I whisper yelled.

His finger delineated a vivid picture in his book and he pouted, peculiarly with sullen and cute denotations. "But cats..."

"I know everything about cats!"

"But have you heard of the Burmilla?" He stared with big, ingenuous and accusing eyes.

I remained silent as I tried to recover my cat research, racking my brain for all my midnight browsing. My brows creased and I stared off. The name didn't ring a bell.

He grinned as he understood the look on my face. I giggled and hopped closer, "I have not, show me."

He shifted the book to our middle and lowered his head, and mine inched perfunctorily to his which I become too thoughtful about.

I looked up at him from my lashes and he was right there. His hair brushing over his face, and him proving impervious as he read on animatedly. I felt the urge to pull back as my breath hitched. I felt my fingers clench and my palms perspire.

Our proximity was never an issue and has never been. He was right in front of me and I forgot how to be. My heart lurched and my mind plagued with anxiety.

I wondered like I never before if I smelt nice. If my hair smelt bad. If my perfume was too much.

I don't look away from him and keep on staring as he came to a stop in his reading and looked at me.

He frowned, "You're not paying attention are you?" My instant reaction was to act on my anxiety and jerk away, "You can tell me if i'm boring you. Cats are dumb anyway." He was pouting and avoiding my eyes.