She spent hours putting pen to paper,
spilling ink from her deepest wounds,
filling pages, searching for meaning.
Sometimes, she had to coax the words to come, as though she were slowly untangling a knot. But she needed these words, needed their power to tell her story. So, she pulled them out, one by one, struggling to retrieve them and put them on paper. As she tugged at the words, trying to mold them and shape them into a story she felt good about, she became exhausted.
She could no longer hold the pain,
no longer sit with the sadness,
no longer hide the loneliness.
So, she let go, stopped pulling at the words, stopped trying to make them fit. Suddenly, they started tumbling out of her, dancing as they made their way to the paper.
They were now free to tell her story,
the whole story,
the true story.
She was no longer in control as the words furiously poured out of her. And when they stopped, she found on the pages a story.
A story of love and loss,
hope and despair,
passion and apathy,
connection and loneliness.
It was a story she never would have written herself with too many rough edges, too many holes, too many forbidden passages, and too many things for others to dislike. But it was hers. And she could not shake the feeling that there was something ethereal about it, a beauty that could only come from something bigger than herself, from a realm she could not see yet knew existed.