As a self proclaimed writer, I’m always looking for ideas. I want to immortalize my teen years in paper, and what better way to do it than through real conversations with friends? For this reason, I have a binder full of notes. Just notes, nothing more, and definitely nothing less. There are long notes, short notes, notes that are more art than writing, notes folded into paper shapes, notes written in spirals, and notes written in multi coloured gel pens. There are love notes, academic notes, notes full of emotion, notes telling jokes, notes gossiping, and notes simply saying hello. There are angry notes, happy notes, sad notes, and tired notes. I love these notes. I file them and keep them safe from harm. Throughout my countless moves, one thing I have refused to get rid of is my binder. After all, my notes are some of my most treasured possessions, and the only things I would put in my personal museum.
My notes have been collected since the seventh grade, when I discovered the joys that could come from small pieces of paper stealthily passed around the classroom. My friends and I, partners in crime, would often glance at each other, trying in vain to conceal a smile, while we faked a yawn, and dropped the note on the desk behind us. Since then, the methods of passing the notes have evolved, as have the notes themselves. They have become more than just pastimes; they have become parts of who I am. One part of me was formed by the fights I had with my best friend through notes in the ninth grade. Another part of me was formed by the numerous love notes sent by my first serious boyfriend in the 11th grade. I learned minimal Korean and Chinese through various notes sent through high school, and it has all shaped who I am now.
I can just see it. One would walk into my museum, and instead of seeing displays with captions, they would simply see the captions themselves. Hundreds and hundreds of framed notes would hang off the walls. They would be in chronological order with labels indicating the time and the topic of conversation. They could also be organized by person, or perhaps by country, whichever allows for the easiest understanding. At any rate, any random passerby would be able to walk through the room, read the seemingly infinite series of notes, and automatically have a good idea of who I was, and who I have been to those who have known me. They would know me, in a sense.
My museum would be perfect. It would be full of art, drama, literature, history, and, most of all, life. It would be the portrait of an eclectic seventeen year-old girl, and the stories she had to share from around the world. It would be a portrait of me. Me and my notes.
My notes have been collected since the seventh grade, when I discovered the joys that could come from small pieces of paper stealthily passed around the classroom. My friends and I, partners in crime, would often glance at each other, trying in vain to conceal a smile, while we faked a yawn, and dropped the note on the desk behind us. Since then, the methods of passing the notes have evolved, as have the notes themselves. They have become more than just pastimes; they have become parts of who I am. One part of me was formed by the fights I had with my best friend through notes in the ninth grade. Another part of me was formed by the numerous love notes sent by my first serious boyfriend in the 11th grade. I learned minimal Korean and Chinese through various notes sent through high school, and it has all shaped who I am now.
I can just see it. One would walk into my museum, and instead of seeing displays with captions, they would simply see the captions themselves. Hundreds and hundreds of framed notes would hang off the walls. They would be in chronological order with labels indicating the time and the topic of conversation. They could also be organized by person, or perhaps by country, whichever allows for the easiest understanding. At any rate, any random passerby would be able to walk through the room, read the seemingly infinite series of notes, and automatically have a good idea of who I was, and who I have been to those who have known me. They would know me, in a sense.
My museum would be perfect. It would be full of art, drama, literature, history, and, most of all, life. It would be the portrait of an eclectic seventeen year-old girl, and the stories she had to share from around the world. It would be a portrait of me. Me and my notes.
1 comment:
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