Words

Just a Short Story

The ink trails behind the ballpoint pen in a scribble of loops and letters. Her brain thinks too fast, a car speeding on the highway, weaving through the slow moving vehicles on the road. Her hand moves faster, quicker, trying to keep up. No more attention paid to the perfection of each mark, of each word.

Her thoughts want out, and out they come. Angry little things they are, taking up the space on the paper. Angry words for an angry child, and angry she is- far too often.

Her brain is filled with thoughts of the heart and the heart is fuming, a ticking bomb. Her only tool of defusion: her journal, keeper of her passion and ire.

As years pass, her little red book keeps her true self company, witness to all her trials and tribulations. All her explosions, whether past or dismantled. Older and wiser and calmer she grew. Life becomes clearer and still she writes on those small blank pages, filling in the lines of her life.

Self-discovery is imminent, and discover herself she did! When that little red book is finally filled with her days, now good and bad, a newer, bigger book is bought. Words dance delicately across the page, feelings strewn about so strongly it is a surprise the pages stay intact. Letters big and small occupy the space between the lines, the breath between words.

Her heart grows and grows; there is room, room to love others. Room to understand how others feel, not just how she did with her anger in accompaniment. Room to love the words written in her book and in others. Clever lines, heart-wrenching tales in short bursts of sentences.

And so then she takes all that anger from all those pages. She takes it and allows herself to be transformed. Allows her anger to fuel her love, to fuel her thoughts and ideas.

Grand ideas and ideas adorned in glittering gold take shape inside her once tumultuous mind. They make their way onto paper and into the hearts of others, disguised as little black letters grouped carefully together. Each one chosen with care and created quite effortlessly.

Creativity- that was the gift! But where was the flow, where did the idea suck her readers in? This she had to learn. Back to the throes of conflict and frustration.

She pushed and shoved and sweated and grunted and all her labor and exercise produced the fruits, the delicious juicy apples of her story. Each detail flowed seamlessly into the next, a river flowing effortlessly downstream. Refreshing and cool, fast and energizing.

With each word she consciously and carefully writes out, her love for creation grows. It is only now that she finally knows, deep in her bones, it will continue to feel as if her heart is bursting with joy and happiness and excitement and love for the rest of her glorious days.