day 15: Notes or modern art

They say medicine is

Precise. Calculated. Clean.

They haven’t seen my notes.

I don’t take notes. I create them—abstract art born of sleep deprivation and the desperate urge to feel productive.

Each page is a chaotic masterpiece: half-sentences, arrows pointing nowhere, diagrams that look more like sad flowers—or possibly an extraterrestrial life form.

Sometimes I can’t tell if I’ve written “gallbladder” or “go back to sleep.”

More questionable are the words that clearly don’t belong in that subject—much less that class.

And yet, there’s a system.

A sacred rhythm only I can follow.

Random words boxed in? That means “look it up.”

The mountain doodle in the corner? No clue—but he’s been there since first year, so he stays.

There’s a strange beauty in it, honestly.

The mess. The scribbles. The ink smudges.

They’re proof that I showed up. That I tried. That I cared—even when I had no idea what I was doing.

No, my notes aren’t pretty.

They’re not Pinterest-perfect spreads with color-coded bullet points and symmetrical headers.

But they’re mine.

Messy. Maybe functional. Full of arrows, cross-outs, and mind maps that trail off mid-thought.

Modern art.

Signed in ball pen. Or pencil. Or whatever I was lent that day.