Ramon Chavez

Unwritten

The smell of coffee lingers, blending with the faint scent of old books and the glow of neon signs. I take a slow sip of my lukewarm drip coffee. I showed up early, hoping to write something meaningful, maybe even a little whimsical. So far, I’ve just stared out the window and scrolled through my phone. 

The sky is gloomy, filled with gray clouds. Rain droplets streak the glass of the window beside me. They remind me of the races in Tron. Never touching, always zig-zagging, cutting corners in an aimless pursuit. 

Rain doesn’t come often around these parts. 100 days or so without it, the news says. But that’s why I like living here. The sun is always shining. 

I sigh and attempt to type something on my laptop. A laptop that was supposed to make it easier for me to write my articles and musings, but is now just another obstacle. 

Writing feels easier, more natural even, when it’s in a notebook. A notebook doesn’t judge. A notebook doesn’t suggest a synonym, like Grammarly does, for a word you already like. It lets you be messy, lets your thoughts be half-formed and raw. A screen demands structure; a notebook just wants you to show up and let your imagination flow. 

Something as small and mundane as scribbling out something you don’t like and leaving behind a mess only you can make sense of is rewarding. It’s like painting on a canvas only you can see and understand. 

Back in the day, I used to write when I was stuck doing something mind-numbing, something so dull that the only way to escape was through imagination, pen, and paper.

I think back to my days at a call center, flipping over training sheets and drafting short film ideas between customer complaints. We weren’t allowed to use our phones while working, and the computers only allowed us to access Google Maps or Wikipedia. 

There’s only so much Wikipedia a person can read before they start questioning reality, so when I hit that limit, I wrote. 

I wrote in a packed sea of cubicles, surrounded by people pretending to care about billing disputes. Writing was my only escape. 

Reading and writing always came naturally to me in a way that math never did. “¡Usa la lógica!” my dad would say whenever I struggled with a problem. His ability to understand anything math-related was second to none. I, on the other hand, checked out the moment numbers got involved. 

In our community, working jobs that required manual labor was respected. Spending hours reading or writing never quite fit that mold. Whenever I buried myself in a book or tried to write something of my own, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my parents thought I was wasting my time. Back then, I didn’t think a job doing any sort of writing could be a real career.

I still remember their confused looks when I walked into our usual Saturday morning breakfast with a copy of Holes in hand. Reading was already outside the norm; writing felt even more distant. 

The coffee shop I sit in is full of antiques. At a glance, there’s an old Dr. Pepper glass bottle, metal lunch boxes with faded pictures of ‘70s sitcom characters, a Rose Bowl hat from the time ASU made it back in the ‘90s. Dusty couches and uneven bar chairs fill the dimly lit space, while Stranger Things plays on the TVs in the background. A coffee shop full of nostalgia. 

Nostalgia is something I’ve been struggling with lately–the longing for yesteryear, for when things supposedly felt easier, the grass was greener, and the problems were few and far between. It’s hard not to fall into the well of The Past, especially when certain moments sneak up on you. 

Music, more than anything, has a way of pulling me back. A single note from a song can unravel an entire memory.

Anything by Calvin Harris instantly transports me to the days I used to hit up the raves at Rawhide with alcohol in my system and dust in my lungs (Seriously, if you ever go to a rave out there, bring a facemask). 

“Cumbia Del Sol” by Los Caminantes transports me to a Christmas I spent in California. One of my aunts was fed up with my inability to dance a simple Cumbia (a big no no where I’m from) and locked me in a room with just enough space to teach me to dance for hours because she was tired of her nephew embarrassing her in front of company. 

But the music that takes me back the most? Kanye. 

Yes, hold up. I can explain. This was before the Twitter meltdown (which one?) and all the other stuff. 

I grew up in a household where I wasn’t allowed to go out unless it was with a member of our church, where a typical outing consisted of sharing bible verses and watching educational church films. So, most of the time I would rather stay home. 

Weekend nights consisted of either watching La Hora Pico, Cero en Conducta (which, honestly, I probably shouldn’t have been watching at that age), or reruns of Smallville. 

But most of the time, I would just plug in whatever console I had at the time and blast my favorite music, which meant Kanye. 

Graduation. Late Registration. College Dropout. 

Shoot, even 808s and Heartbreak for a certain time.

Those albums weren’t just music; they were fuel. Fuel for a shy kid who had immigrated to a new country, his dreams locked away and shackled by his parents’ beliefs and the expectations of everyone around him. 

They were the soundtrack to breaking free from self-doubt and loneliness. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to watch him become what he is now. 

In my favorite show, Mad Men, Don Draper describes nostalgia as “the pain from an old wound:” 

“It’s a twinge in your heart, far more powerful than memory alone. This device isn’t a spaceship. It’s a time machine.” 

And that’s exactly what nostalgia feels like, a time machine you don’t always want to step into, but somehow, in the blink of an eye, you’re already inside. 

Our past shapes us, and it’ll always have a hold on us in some way. But that doesn’t mean it gets to decide who we become. 

I take a sip of my now-cold coffee, letting the nostalgia settle as I tune back into reality. I still haven’t written anything. 

My laptop screen dims, only 20% battery left. The cursor blinks aggressively, almost mocking me. 

I close the laptop. I walk to the counter, setting down my empty ceramic cup. I wave a friendly yet half-hearted goodbye, even though none of the baristas care if I leave. 

Stepping outside, the sunlight meets my eyes, a little too bright after the dim coffee shop. For a moment, I think about all the things I’ve written in notebooks over the years: unfinished stories, loose ideas, scribbles only I can read. Some of it was nonsense. Some of it, I wish I had held onto longer. 

Maybe that’s the trick of nostalgia; it convinces you the best parts of your story are already behind you. 

But they’re not. 

The best things? They’re still unwritten. (Damn it. That’s a song, isn’t it?)

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Jesus Rodriguez is a passionate creator driven by a deep desire to explore his artistic interests. He finds fulfillment in bringing his visions to life. Whether it’s with a pencil, the crafting of video, or the intricacies of design, each project is an opportunity for him to learn, grow, and refine his skills.