It is white. It is waiting to be filled.
She can hear the words as they flit through her mind. She can feel them roll off her tongue, can envision them landing on the page and spreading their inky feelers as they take root and begin to grow.
They have a life of their own.
She can hear the roar of the waves, the howl of the wind, the sweet song of the birds. She can taste the sweet fruit. She can see the blinding sunlight, and impenetrable darkness. She can feel the weight of the pen in her hand. The tip is poised above the white page. It is all inside her head. It is waiting to be written.
Words are magic.
Words break free from their cage and tumble out, spreading across the page as her hand moves, faster and faster. A fire crackles. Songbirds rejoice. The world breathes music and laughter. And still her hand is moving, still the page is devouring the words that flow from deep within. Still she breathes, lives, creates.
They have a life of their own.
Her hand moves without direction. Her mind is pulled, deeper and deeper, into the world she is creating. Mountains rise in the distance; water rises to her ankles. A wave of her hand, a flick of her pen - a volcano erupts. Ash and fire drop to the ground in a rain of passionate words. And still her hand is moving, still the page is alive. Still her mind is inseparable from the world. Still she thinks; still she writes.
Words are magic.
Life. It erupts. Blazing yellow, fiery orange, earthy brown - it surrounds her, smothers her. From the deepest oceans to the tallest peaks, creatures begin to crawl, walk, run, fly. Herds run like stormy skies. Rain falls. And still her hand is moving, still she is untouched by the noise around her.
They have a life of their own.
The cacophony of a thousand voices greets her, overwhelms her, but it is not enough. It is never enough. And still her hand is moving, still the world is alive. Still she is surrounded by the voices of people, her people. She is the Creator.
Words are magic.
Alone atop a small hill she stands, eyes alight with the breathless joy of writing. In regal clothes and pen in hand, she calls herself Queen.
Her hand is still.
It is black. It is filled.
