Quesadillas

Personally, I have always believed objects are nothing more than trinkets or a sorry reason to brag. Throughout my life, I have always struggled with the prospect of being materialistic. To be materialistic is to be money-oriented or concerned in possessions. Only in my recent years have I learned the emotional value that an object can hold. Objects can always have a deeper meaning; a few objects that are deeply intertwined within my spirit are quesadillas, a polaroid camera, and my sketchbook. During the hardest times of my life, I have always reverted to eating quesadillas. I don’t have a particular reason or trace of logic behind it; However, for some reason I am somehow momentarily convinced that the key to my survival lies in eating a mass of golden gooeyness. A few weeks ago was one of the hardest times of my life. For three weeks after all I ate was quesadillas. One day in particular was very traumatizing, as I had spent class crying for two periods in a row. One thing that stood out to me was someone walking up and asking why I was crying. Upon that moment, I knew it was everything and nothing all at once that

I have always enjoyed the concept that by making multiple intricate strokes you can create a masterpiece. Growing up it felt like the one thing the world could not take away from me. Some days it felt like it was the only thing I had. However, I had never had a real sketchbook. I remember waking up one morning to find a fresh unfilled sketchbook on the edge my bed for my twelfth birthday. I opened the book, and I cried. I shook violently as I ran my shaking hands over the pressed paper. I flipped through the book and smelled the ‘fresh paper/new book’ smell; my tears wetting the edges of the neatly bound pages. I remember crying because I had an almost indescribable feeling of euphoric bliss. To this day, I still write notes in the margins of my old sketchbook using it as a venting and coping