It’s an odd feeling, rewriting my old work. A lot of it was done so long ago that it no longer feels like mine. At the same time, memories pop up like bubbles as I swim through the past, searching for sunken treasures. The wet weight of clothes pulls me down and seaweed tries to tangle me up in forgotten moments.

Remembering is not always nice.

I do like the underwater metaphor, though – perhaps I will use it somewhere in the book. I’ve been writing a lot during my babysitting job, once Taarai falls asleep, but it’s snippets for now, puzzle pieces of a story not yet solved. I don’t know what the connecting factor is.

Yesterday, I tried to push an idea forward. Like a house of cards, the fragile thoughts came crashing down and I wanted to cry in despair. Today, I’ve calmed down enough to pick it back out of the trash.

Nothing feels right. I don’t know if it’s a lack of skill or impatience or something else entirely. I don’t know, or I would fix it. But no matter how hard I try, everything seems wrong.

The other day, Richie said he hates the sketches he’s made so far. He’s shown me a few of them and I think they’re brilliant. His artworks have amazed me ever since we were little, to the point that his ease in creativity makes me jealous.

I don’t think he views us two as competitors. I try not to, because it’s like apples and oranges, but the feelings persist, little mosquitoes buzzing around my brain with that constant tone of: you’re useless, he’ll always be better.

But he also hates his work. So at least I’m not alone in that. Maybe my work is also better than I think it is. Maybe if I try enough and work hard enough, I’ll be good enough someday.

Yeah, right.

I’ve been telling myself that for years now.

It’s time to stop scribbling silly emotions and return to the book.