When she was sad, she wrote. When she was happy, she wrote. Every single time she felt nothing or everything she wrote. It was her only way of making sense of her thoughts and feelings, of all the coulds and shoulds and…the what ifs. She had plenty of those. All the questions left unanswered and words left unsaid. She could get lost in the labyrinth of her heart. That’s why she needed words. She loved them, for their ability to clear her mind, to show her the way.
She wrote words on a piece of paper and it would all make sense. She’d use words to draw a map to where she wanted to go.
Words were powerful. One wrong word and…
She did not dare think about these sort of things. No. She could write about them, and then throw the paper away.
Throw the paper away before those thoughts became too real.