The desire is fierce. The story replays, then edits itself each time in her mind.
The characters walk about in her head, singing a siren song
to lure her to write their words down on paper. But her hands refuse to honor
their wishes. Or perhaps, it is the pen that refuses. Its ink, staying wet too
long, smudging and reminding her how easy it is to mess up. Certainly her words, the voice inside her head, has no place
in the too loud and talkative world. What would their rawness and jagged edges
contribute to the polished words already being spoken?
She is a realist. She thrives on black and white. Her water
color words would just confused things, colors blurring outside the safe lines
of the picture she has drawn of her life. How do these misshapen characters and
story lines fit into the square box that keeps her safe?
Maybe people will want to read her words?
Oh, god. What if people want to read her words?
Maybe they will pay no attention. Maybe they will pay too
much attention. They will probably hate some of the people that live in her
mind. Because she hates some of them, too.
She must let them out. She can’t let them out. Their song
has caught in the breeze. Maybe she no longer has a choice. Their words are
being pulled out by the changing wind. The wind is moving the pen. It drys the
ink and pushes her to write on. The story is leaking onto her clean notebook,
smudging her hands.
And she trys not to stop.
