She makes masterful scribblings in the dark, when she thinks no one is around. No one is watching her.
She scribbles about secret places and entirely unexplored worlds. She writes about places she has never seen and places she will never know. She writes about people who do not and cannot exist.
She does not write about what she knows.
She scribbles elaborate hoaxes and brilliant dreams. She writes lovers’ dialogue. She scribbles words like “said” and “thunderstruck” and “mailman” and “garbage truck”.
She writes in black ink and her words come out in black arches and blacker glaciers. She scribbles in pencil lead and her letters are gray and small and sad. She fills white paper with her words and letters and scribblings, but she never shares.
She does not write for anyone but herself.
She writes to free her mind of all the thoughts locked up in it. She writes to set her fanciest thoughts free. She writes so she can get through every single day, so she can breathe easy, so she can think of new things to write and scribble down.