The greatest epiphany of my writer’s life was that she is alone. Through dreary nights of wine coloured tongue and hazy afternoons of unrest, my writer wrote unceasingly. Almost oblivious to the world and incredulous to love. Each syllable dripping out of my sharp nibs was drenched in thoughts of sadness and despair. And all my dark ink was met with yellowed pages which held tears of reasons unknown. Sadness, was my writer’s, greatest foe and her best friend.
Soon my writer set me free. It was her time to explore herself. Make use of this grand world around her. And she, like anybody else of her age at this time and space, found herself crawling back to this old raggedy pen of hers. Eyes widened with exuberance, mouth filling up unsustainable joy- yet, all through this she was encircled with a feeling of solitude. The ghost of her being got trapped somewhere else she never wanted it to. All her magnolias and daffodils could not bring her back to where she once was.
The ends of my body became chewy and the ink by which I was so celebrated soon started dripping. Dripping like the blood in her throat did- when my writer could not speak what she wanted to. But better days were coming and I felt it. The words became less sloppy, the thoughts gained more clarity and I was used less fervently.
The greatest epiphany of my writer’s life was she is worth it. She is worth all her magnolias and all her fervent writings. All the sadness in her bones should not always make her so helpless, after all. Music is, but for the sad soul. And words are a way of letting go of unhinged emotions. The creased yellowed pages, my broken spine and the tad splotches of ink on the corners- all this made her feel at home. The pen she carried along with her told a different story, but in these pages, which held the musings of my writer- would you find the real tale of lost love and regained happiness.