She wrote.
The words tumbling, falling, flying.
They seemed to float midair, till the paper caught them and imprisoned them between the lines of the page.
The words became alive.
Her hand, seemingly to somehow spark life into the words.
She wrote, it seemed for hours, about all things;
The frost that decorates your window on crisp winter days, the ribbons he gave to you, and those little china teacups we used to drink from.
She was writing the story of her people.
The awkward
The silent
The odd
The brave
The villains
The lovers
The cowards
And the little ones that changed the world.
She wrote about what they were made of;
The salt water that poisons their veins.
The whispers of the outdoors.
The words written by long- forgotten men.
And that ever present itch in the back of their mind, to wander and walk among strangers.
And so, when she finished the song of her people, it was much too strong, yet gentle, too fierce and beautiful for this world.
And those who didn't understand; they mocked and said "who can be fierce and gentle at the same time? so beautiful and raw?"
But, there were people who, when they read her words, a great galaxy of belonging rose up inside of them and they lived.
Because, they knew then that there was others.
just as complex
just as raw
just as fierce
and so very beautifully alive.
And she laughed and pitied those who didn't understand for she told them "you know nothing about life, you are content to watch the ocean or walk among the willows, never bothering to listen to the seas song or climb the tree to see what it sees."
But they still laughed and she couldn't hear them over the sound of the winds and birches.
And still she wrote on.
