A diary entry

"I kind of feel like we're reading her diary," a classmate commented. In a sense, they were. As Aileen flipped through the pages of this semester's tangible piece of my soul, the class waited for my stories, the words that might just match the images they saw. At first, it was natural for me. Brandeis taught us to be able to speak about our works, to add wall text, when necessary. But suddenly, it wasn't up to me, which pieces I should or should not reflect on, let alone did I have time to prepare any sort of artist statement. It was totally impromptu, on the spot. Right then and there. The feedback was not necessarily positive or negative, per se. It just was. And at the end? What was left beyond my vulnerability? Oh yes, my sketchbook, and my drawings. Spread open to my latest entry, the secrets scattered around the room, the page only holding a collection of lines. My mind and soul were quickly stripped away, revealing my inner core, my thoughts, to a room full of near strangers. So go ahead, click on. At least when flipping through Margo's Fall Sketchbook here online, you cannot see my embarrassment, or feel my anxiety, you can't hear my obsessive nature, and you can't taste the wonder...the wonder if honestly is always the best policy...