She stared at the blank page, unable to write a single word, even though she knew exactly what needed to be said.
She wanted to write. She wanted to pour out all her wild feelings in some manners harsh, because a paper was after all a paper; it won’t complain, it won’t tell anyone. It will keep what is given, it will forever keep it embossed in it like something precious.
She wanted to write utterly random words, senseless, stupid words. She wanted to mark darkest of lines, in the cruelest of ways. She wanted to define herself on that worthless piece.
Also did she long to write about those people, those that had harmed her. Those that had hurt her. Those that had crumpled her ego, her self-respect, and those for whom she had forgotten that she had a life of her own.
Life doesn’t offer good endings to everyone, dreams never come true every time, and destinies do not simply change by efforts or prayers; she wanted to tell that.
The clock kept ticking and no marks were to be seen; no lines, no words, no nothing. She kept staring hard. How must she begin? With the ending perhaps?
And what if her pen gives life to that object we call paper? What if her painful memories mold into persons? Her words into figures? She could already sense some ill-dressed, ghostly figures surrounding her.
They circled her, and looked at her blankly. They kept on staring her, and then their lips curled into some evil smiles. Then they began to laugh. Their laughter echoed everywhere. They were haunting her. She couldn’t take that much. ‘GO AWAY!’, she screamed.
Nobody heard her. She started to run towards the door so that she could escape. But alas! All exit doors had jammed. She was stuck there with those horrible faces – those names that her ink had not yet dared to speak – for the night, or for her entire life.