All day, she waited for the moment, where, pen in hand, her heart would collude with her hand, and words would pour forth onto the page. It was in these moments she felt alive.
Previously, the hours had been spent in robotic stupor, tending to duty like some inane robot. Pick a robot, any robot.. One is as good as another, to live these insipidly necessary moments. It is only here, in the creating, that she truly felt that she existed. Her spirit splashed out on the pages and trickled down the edges. Yes, it got messy, but she was ALIVE, and she had forgotten how that felt.