This is the story of a girl,
Who cried a river and drowned the whole world…
No. In the absence of these rivers was that of spite and anger; no abundance of tears would ever be enough to deliver. Little slivers of her heart, shattered pieces and silver glitter are the only shreds that linger within the ceramic casing of the coldest artery. There was no clear heartbeat, just the echo of a melancholy symphony.
She’d been breathless, half-dead and countless times, met the coldest ends. Lost relationships, friendships and all kinds of other ships shipwrecked on her life’s shore. Countless nights she slept on the cold beach wondering if she’d ever deserved more, or if this was exactly what she deserved. The endless internal battles constantly endured, the question always remained: would there ever be anything that could quell the hurt?
That’s where the pen and paper come in. White sheets, clean slates. Black ink, new fates. The scrawlings and scriptures could serve as a recreation of the parts of life that have been soiled, ruined. Reminiscing in dark memories and wallowing in self-loathing would never save her… but the blank pages could do it.
She picked up the pen and began the first line, calligraphy. The sound of ink scratching out words, a bittersweet symphony. The art of the heart, blood flowing through the veins and down through the fingertips expressing the words of the soul. The turning of the pages covered in her own vocabulary was simply the mold. Well, as she’d carefully told.
Writing. The only candlelit room for the prisoner of her own mind, the only thing that could successfully pass the time and keep her well occupied. Unslicing every scar, physical and emotional. Reverse and change the two mindsets, pessimistic and cynical. The only source to channel both love and hate into a successful compilation. The stories blended with emotion, a part of her soul stamping an imprint on her greatest creations. The masterpieces created with her own fingertips, with the passion found within the lesions of the past. Work inspired by pain, art inspired by beauty, blended together into an 8 by 10 1/2 spiral notebook. Persistent as the four seasons.
The Storybook, she’d titled it.
Expressions of everything she’d ever created.
Signed and dated.
Serving as the physical proof of her revelation—She made it.
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