Some days we write and the words come flowing. Sometimes they lay stopped up inside the pen; corked like a bottle of sweet wine left to age just a little longer. Sometimes we feel things we can't explain, experiences lost in the webbed maze of connections we call the mind.
Lexi's writing tried to speak of a story long since past. Her articles were mere band-aids to hide and underlying mess of freelance that none would ever read because of the infection that oozed from between the lines. Pages locked inside her. Words only she knew.
She had plans for this part, but upon putting ink to paper, she found her words insufficient.
So she poured her time that afternoon into doing justice to that little coffee shop on the corner and the people inhabiting that special corner of the world.
But one thing about entities such as fear, anger, and hate is that they demand to be felt, however long you ignore them. And once a writer allows her soul to feel, the poison will dance it's way across the page without mercy.
But be still dear restless heart. Walk gingerly, and take good care not to let your fleeting whims overcome what you know inside to be truth and song. Pursuit of peace will sometimes lead a heart astray; a road to hell. And good intentions will often hide a darker scheme.
A page stained black.
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