Wordsmith at work.

The words came to her.
They came to her like rain, at times like the welcome pitter-patter of those beautiful drops on a parched land. At times like a heavy downpour,torrents of them descending on her all at once; on others, a langorously slow dripping, falling oh so slow, slow, slow. Sometimes as welcome as the burst of warm sunshine in an unforgiving, freezing winter, sometimes as unwelcome as rain during floods. They were her gift and curse; her boon and bane. But no matter which they truly were, she would rather suffer with her words, for her words, than be a shell, a ghost of herself without them.
They made her laugh, they made her weep. They made her fume and rage, they made her quiet and meditative. They made her question everything, explore new horizons. They taught her things far beyond the mundane, things only a soul as beautiful as hers could comprehend.
They made her feel satiated with the most exquisite ecstasy, they tortured and tormented her to what felt like the very brink of insanity.
And she collected them all, preserving them for eternity amongst the smell of worn paper and ink; words that would be special to her always, that did not require validation from anyone else. Words that made her what she was. The words that helped her escape the world and its worries. Words that whisked her away to faraway, magical places,to trip along the distant shores of fantasy. Words that gave her pent up feelings a release. Words that made her feel alive;made her fingers thrill as her pen flew across the paper. The words without which she felt empty,hollow.
Words that were a part of her.



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