I wrote part of this about a year ago when I was still living at home.
She read the story of two broken hearts , pausing every few minutes to sip her cup of hot milk (now a nightly routine). The sound and smell of the wood turning to ashes in the fireplaces, the dishwasher on its thousandth cycle, and the sudden silence as the family settled into their dreams for the night…everything suddenly still.
Sometimes she wishes she could write like this. Writing on paper is an exercise in chaos. Right now, she wishes she could write with honesty about all of the beautiful, painful moments. She has always hidden these moments in her heart, behind words, in the secret places where regret and joy sit side by side.
She is starstruck with genius. The smarts, you see, take hold and she wants to be surrounded by a library: the smell of old books, furniture that wishes to be reborn, the scratches on the floor and the quiet whisper of pages.
Writing is like an addiction that she doesn’t have time for anymore. The words sit unopened, rattling around in her brain, occasionally wasted, but mostly just dusty.