With an act of sheer impulsiveness, she shoved the notebook inside her ragged pockets, rummaged the mess on the coffee table till she found a black pen and entered her room. She closed the door pushing it slightly forward with one hand to muffle the sound; something habitual.
The stark white of pages agitated her; she hated white, she hated blankness. She would scatter meaningless words that had the least connection, words that flitted through her mind with the speed of rockets burning in it, soon to be sat free. She gave birth to them, on those stark white pages that were now ink-stained.
The light of the sun coated everything around her, but she didn’t care. She d didn’t get up to draw the curtains of her tarnished window at the far of the room. She was breaking rules, feeling freedom blazing in her veins, mountains of ice melting, drenching her mind with a flood of words. She was rebelling on the facts, turning a blind eye to life. She was not empty again. She shut the door to reality. She was not restrained by meaning, by sense. She didn’t know where that would take her, moreover she didn’t care. She was living inside these moments, not floating on the ebbs and tides of time, giving in to gravity, letting herself willingly drown deep into it. She was not in a labyrinth. She was not miserable. She was not alone. She was not crying. She was not lamenting her bad luck. She was not waiting. She was not screaming. She was here. She was now. She was invincible.
image via here