When I was first introduced to coffee, I was no older than 15. I remember waking up each before the walk to school with my mom for coffee and donuts. We would go to the corner store and pick up a Starbucks Double Shot Energy Drink with a pack of white-powered donuts. It became routine for us and allowed us to bond over drinking coffee. It wasn't the healthiest, but with late-night studying and early-morning bus trips, I needed all the sugar and caffeine could get. That said, going into my sophomore year of college, I found a new favorite drink going into the new fall semester. Served at my university Starbucks cafe, there were two fall-flavored drinks: a Pumpkin Chai Latte and one of my favorites to this day, Apple Crisp Shaken Espresso. Attending university, I learned to schedule my time better which helped my sleep schedule and studying habits. As odd as it sounds, I didn't need as much caffeine and sugar compared to my teenage years. That said, throughout my freshmen year of college, I relied on my excitement and nervousness to start the day, not drinking as much coffee. During the evenings, energy drinks helped me stay awake and were used to being accompanied by the loss of coffee intake. I would be too busy to visit our on-campus Starbucks cafe, walking by each day, reminiscing about the smell of early morning coffee with my mom. But when you're a freshman in college, everything about the past becomes something stored away like an old picture frame. I missed my mom and life before I moved away, however, the new life of becoming an actual adult drove me to push past familiar scents and memories. Starting my sophomore year of college, I was less homesick because I visited family over the summer break. That year felt different for me, I was no longer a kid anymore living with my family, but an adult who now had to sleep in the "guest bedroom" and not have as many chores. I remember one day my mom had asked me during the summer if I had drank as much coffee and a part of me felt a sense of sadness. As great as the coffee was, the taste and smell didn't trigger this emotion out of me. It was a feeling of loss, that those memories of my mom and I were just simply that now: memories. I had grown into a new adult, leaving home and starting a life of my own. Going back into the fall semester of my sophomore year, I decided to stop at the cafe and order something new. This was during the fall so the two drinks were being highly promoted at the time. I had ordered the Apple Crisp Shaken Espresso and fell in love with the taste. The sweetness of the apple and the warm nuttiness of the espresso brought back memories of my childhood that were sweet and a little rocky at times. I don't get as much coffee as much, but every time the fall drinks come into season, I remember to take a little break to appreciate the slowness of fall and reflect on my life, being in college and life before.

There are times, quite often, I cannot speak. I say the correct words, fix my tone, and perfect every sentence, but I still cannot speak. There is a fine line that disconnects my mind and mouth. And for some reason, every time I speak, it doesn’t feel right. So I write, in hopes that my mind and fingers can correspond better. At the age of six, I wrote my first ever story. Granted, it was a poorly written children's book with more pictures than words, but it changed my whole world. At the age of 12, a short story I wrote was published at a writers' convention at my school, despite that story raising heavy concerns about my mental wellness. Despite that, I finally felt free. I figured out how to truly speak. I could yell, scream, cry, and express myself through metaphors and creative implications. My fingers became mere tools to accompany my ever-changing mind. For years I wrote poems, songs, short stories, and too many unfinished novels. I realized though, that these forms of writing soon became my escape. An escape I never wanted to leave from. I realized how lonely my words felt and how disconnected I became from reality. The realities of the world dawned on me as I grew older. Looking at my family and the lack of stability we had, I felt broken and lost. I realized that writing would not help feed us or put me in college. I realized that as free as I felt, I was still ultimately stuck. I decided to put down my pens and pencils and focus on helping myself and my family. I studied intensely, throwing away my ability to speak again. People would constantly tell me that a career in writing would leave me poor or unhappy. That I needed to go into the health field or get a degree in something that “mattered”. I didn't understand it then but looking back, I was doing something that mattered. Writing is more than individual creative freedom, it’s an opportunity to view the world freely. It was more than allowing myself to speak, it was showing the world how to connect. When I read books, novels particularly, I feel the words and breath the sentences on each page. Books have a way of transforming reality into whatever was created in a few hundred pages. I think it’s one of the most beautiful things humans have created. I believe that’s why I admire the art of writing so much. It’s something so understood, yet forgotten. Despite my best efforts, sometimes I still cannot speak. There will always be that line that disconnects my mind and mouth. That said, I strive to allow myself and others to free themselves, one word at a time.

For three months, I have been carrying a small red journal with me. This journal, no bigger than my hand, is quite special to me. Although its blank pages are kept inside its red body, I keep it close. Waiting patiently for that moment, the moment to write something and anything. I wait and stare and think. I have read many books in my twenty years of living, yet when it comes to my own, nothing appears. When I read books, novels particularly, I feel the words and breath the sentences on each page. Books have a way to transform reality into whatever was created in a few hundred pages. I think it’s one of the most beautiful things humans have created. When I visit the library, my red book kept near me, all I can do is admire what is there and yet to be. Millions of ideas, transformed into words on a page, sit there patiently. Like many works of art, books can be overlooked and disregarded. Somedays I would sit there for hours, exploring topics I never heard of or recipes I’ll probably never make. But to me, that’s what’s so special about books. It’s knowledge that can be used or something that might help in a game of trivia. Many books, despite some being questionable, can tell you something about the life around you. I believe that’s why I admire the art of writing so much. It’s something so understood, yet forgotten. When it comes to writing, like many practices, it will never be perfect. But that is what makes it more human. It’s authentic and alive, growing and expanding in our minds. When I look at my small red book, I think of all the ideas and paths I could take. I dream about the words that will soon dance on those pages and be read by others. Reading has taught me patience, but also trust. I have to trust that whatever I’m reading will satisfy my hunger for knowledge, entertainment, and understanding. I have to trust in whatever I’m writing, even if it means getting a new red journal if I fail a few times. Reading has opened many doors for me about how creative and amazing our minds can be. Sure there are times when our writing wasn’t Nobel Peace Prize worthy, but writing is an experience. There is trial and error, but even with that, learning and growing are all a part of living. I’m excited about this new journey ahead of me, and the paths I will take. As I carry the same 4x5-inch red journal with me, I’ll remember what the art of literature taught me. I’ll remember the countless times I’ve cried, laughed, got angry, and annoyed while reading books. I’ll remember how it taught me to be trusting and patient. And lastly, I’ll remember reading a book started in a red journal no bigger than my hand and loving every moment that leads to it. And who knows, that book just might win me a Nobel Peace Prize someday.

The idea of free will has always been a constant battle in my head. How if we had acquired such a free-given gift, why did the world seem pre-destined for us? Do people have to suffer based on their own decisions or was their fate already set? Perhaps it was genetics, something ingrained in us. I believed this to be true because of my mother. A tragic story of a woman who loved so much she began to destroy herself. The line of men who took a little bit of herself until she was nothing but a mother to us. This happened to my grandmother as well, a cycle of unfavorable events that seemed so natural to our family. A single mother who worked too hard and loved too much. But when I grew older, I began to have hatred for the world. I knew my mother was doing all she could, but she still lost. Bottles of wine outnumbered the eggs in our fridge and the smell of cigarettes lingered even when I left our home. The constant cries and yells I'd hear only fueled my hatred more. She was trying but for some reason, it wasn't enough. When she fell into a deep depression I felt lost. I didn't understand how such a strong woman could be defeated so many times yet smile to our faces when we asked what was wrong. I wondered if it would happen to me, or to my sister. How would we be different than our past mothers? They were kind, strong, and loving with hearts of gold. Whether it was a generational curse placed on my family, it had to stop somewhere. Watching my mom fall deeper into darkness saddened my soul. I hated that the world had done this to her but I hated that I was powerless more. It could happen to me or my sister or even a classmate I have. It changed my views on life and living itself. I still question this logic from time to time. No matter what we do, are we still subjected to loss? Will I fall into a depressive state as well? That was always a possibility but when my mother began to seek help, I saw the change in her eyes. How such a dark cold expression could showcase a glint of hope in the darkest times. She grew strong and powerful. The smile that was only for her children now smiled right back at her. I realized that we are stronger than the chains that hold us down from succeeding. It may be harder but it can be helped. I learned that it's okay to ask for help even if you don't want it yourself. I learned that the world wasn't against us, but our minds holding us back. It wasn't engraved in our genes or set placed by destiny, it is our world and we just have to learn to take hold of it, one generation at a time.