Sunday, July 10, 2011

You Write Because You Love Him

It's the story of a girl.

A girl with a constant soundtrack. It hummed in the background, wailed like a banshee, embraced her with invisible arms.

But she held a pen, not a guitar. She had words, but no voice. She couldn't weave her own music, only a yarn of endless stories. She wrapped herself in them, weathering long winters and fleeting summers.

She grew taller. She grew womanly. She did not grow up.

As everyone around her grew successful or crazy or even just mature, she stared into a computer screen searching always for a new song, a new voice, a new sound to drown out the calls for her to live anywhere but her imagination.

Imagine her surprise when out of the screen came a boy.

He had words, clumsy and beautiful, so he handed them to her, like a bouquet of compliments.

She blushed, for words are far more seductive than flowers and pretty things. Words do not wither.

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