She Is

She is a writer. She exists in the gray area; in the dark matter; in the creative energy that swarms the mind and provokes it with inspiration, with a language that is not yet.
She draws thoughts and emotions and philosophies and silence into art, creating strange patterns with strange symbols into strange stories that, somehow, to someone, won’t feel strange at all, but will communicate the very inexplicability of life through word and form.
Sometimes these words are mere expressions, or perhaps they are always expressions, of herself or the world, of her beliefs and her wonderings. Perhaps she knows that it doesn’t matter what these words are, but simply that they are. That they exist.
Sometimes the words are born and they grow, seeming to drive themselves, and other times she scribbles them out, rips up the pages, and starts anew. But all the while she knows that words are everything, and she understands how to get them to play, how to get them to speak. More, she understands that sometimes they speak louder through what is left out.
Through blank      white      space.
And sometimes dreams are born of this white space.
She is what became of one of those dreams.

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