Even at times like this, I find that I’m able to draw.
I came home from the sea, was scolded by my parents, and locked myself away in my darkened bedroom. Faintly lit by the glare of my computer, I’m sure I’d look like a ghost if I had a mirror to check myself in.
And despite these thoughts, my hands don’t stop. Scritch scratch, the impact of my pen sliding across the tablet reverberates through my hand. I can’t hear the sound; the music playing through my headphones washes it all away. My heart was shaken with anger today, so I put on some older rock songs. Honestly, I don’t care what the music sounds like. So long as it cuts out the conversations, laughter, TV, traffic, footsteps, and the sound of my own breath... So long as it cuts out this noisy world, any song would do.
After a while, I finish my drawing, but I’m not satisfied with it in the slightest.
I get up from my desk in order to rest my hands. A bookshelf sits on my wide desk next to my computer, lined with textbooks and sketchbooks. I’ve never thrown away a single sketchbook, so there’s way too many for me to simply leave them on the table. Every piece I’ve ever drawn is a priceless treasure to me.
Perhaps you could say I never had anything else, but lately when I see others in my classroom staring off into space, sleeping, or playing on their phones, I count my blessings that I have even one thing to value. I’m sure they’ll live their lives aimlessly until, one day, they find themselves shocked at their unchanging and idle lives. Or maybe they won’t even be shocked, but I have no interest in people that boring. It’s not as if I’ll ever interact with them.
I have something that I’m willing to dedicate my entire being to. Apparently, that isn’t something that comes easily.
Yes. It should be obvious that something I pour my heart and soul into will be irreplaceably precious—and that’s why I feel so bitter. Whenever I see that tramp, I can’t help but think of that drawing I lost, although I know it will never come back.
If I could redo one thing in my life, I wouldn’t have made that illustration. I honestly think that. Ever since that incident, I’ve relegated sketchbooks and croquis journals to practice, and reserved my serious efforts for digital mediums. Even at doujin markets, I make it a point to refuse paper commissions.
I pick up one of the books laying on my desk. It was the very first in my collection, and it’s a general-purpose notebook as opposed to an artistic sketchbook. There were doodles made in pencil, crayons, and colored pencils—even my tools were all over the place. Every now and again, I find a foreign drawing mixed in among my own. These were made by Nanaka.
Simply put, I drew for Nanaka. She was already very popular at a young age, and art was the only means I had to spend time with her. She was quite the sore loser back then, and would throw a fit whenever I finished a work that was better than hers. “I’m drawing more, too!” she’d exclaim, and then we’d draw together. I’m sure that among the countless friends she played with, I was the only one to see that expression of hers. That thought made drawing more and more fun.
The idea of drawing together with Nanaka... Even now, it remains unchanged, in a special place in my heart. But if that was my impetus, then perhaps that initial catalyst has long since withered.
I return the sketchbooks to my bookshelf and lock my hands together, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. Once again, I bring myself before the monitor. My shoulders ache terribly, but there’s no helping it. My figure doesn’t help, and besides, it’s been this way for a long time.
I grab my pen. I run it across the tablet. As the lines glide along with it, I feel my heart beat faster. It’s fun. Drawing—even alone—is fun. Even when I’m alone, it’s fun.
When did this start?
When did drawing alone get to be so fun?
“...Everyone?”
I wonder, do I need that word?