Sunday, June 10, 2012

                                                                    Source: via Kimberley on Pinterest

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.