The Art of Wasting Pages.

I was battling a headache this afternoon. As usual, I felt today was another day passing without direction. I'd like to blame the moon—it’s almost full again. I get this a lot, like clockwork, but most of the time, the days of the month slip through the spaces between my fingers until I reach the next paralyzing moment.

In my self-imposed exile, I’ve come to see life as if I’m living in a fairytale, and this chapter is called Expanding Horizons.

Since last weekend, I’ve watched five films: Julie and Julia, The Hundred-Foot Journey, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Front of the Class, and today, Good Will Hunting.

Now, I’m not a fan of the arts—at least, that’s what I was told to believe. It was instilled in me that it’s nothing but a waste of time, a phrase I’ve been trying to heal from for years. I try to be careful with my words because words are swords that cut dreams and kill geniuses. I’m still trying to figure out what my genius might have been, had I not heard unsupportive words from my mother. But I no longer blame her; people can be forgiven, even if their words pierce a hole in your soul that time alone cannot heal. Whoever said “time heals all wounds” doesn’t know what it’s like to crawl out of an imminent downfall.

I’m not watching movies to kill time or out of boredom. I treat movie time as I would an afternoon stroll through the hallways of a museum: hearing the voices between the walls and falling in love with the details. Movies are moving pieces of art—the way the morning sun from the east touches the protagonist’s face, or how I bask in intricately crafted lines and plots. Both the writer and God share a common denominator: they are creators.

I need inspiration, but not in the form of a man waving all the red flags I once mistook for banderitas. Instead, I seek new perspectives on life so I can view the life I’ve lived—and am continuously living—through a different lens. Perhaps what I’m truly searching for is a way to reflect on my journey with more curiosity, understanding, and compassion.

That’s the page I’m on right now—a space to figure it out and be forgiving toward myself when I feel like I’m messing it up. I should be okay with wasting a few pages along the way. After all, I read somewhere that the only goal of your first draft is to get it out there.

You’re welcome to read my drafts.