She used to plan the future, and edit continuously the words she wrote. Seeking perfection in a sentence, thesaurus in hand, the words needed to be exact, valuable only if correct.
All plans and futures fell apart one day, the cause of the exactitude of the words she had created when believing depth was defined by an unknowable something. The bodies and tragedies and failures and blood that littered the past of her existence.
A strange thing happened, in the ultimate failure. She met Death, he wasn’t pretty or romantic as so often portrayed, he obliterated all plans and futures. He looked like, her.
History became herstory. The perfection of words no longer mattered. What was written, became only what she wrote. Each vowel and syllable, an intent and spell that would lead her where they would. Value shifted with the wind; the freedom of being and living by the heart of her own pen. As she always had, even when unaware.