bubbles and sunshine

She takes a deep breath as she picks up her pen, all ready to let her thoughts flow. A short story is brewing, taking form in her busy brain. It is threatening to spill out onto lined paper. The empty journal is hungry, thirsty to be soaked with the black ink from a Faber-Castell pen.

"A sad story. That gets people real good."

 She is going to write a sad one. One with dramatic descriptions, a long-winded story line and an epic punchline. She is going to make herself cry with this story. 

She starts to write. She pours every sorrow she has into make-believe characters. She digs up past hurts and bitterness, only to be buried again in fiction. Arguments, tears and death takes place in her created universe. Flourishing entrances, dramatic exits. You can almost hear the symphony and its mourning.

But then she stops. Her pen hovers over a dying mother. She thinks twice, thrice, four times. The world has enough sadness, does it not?

With a rude scratch, the pen flies across her precious storytelling. It is now null and void, invalid. Officially unfinished.

"Maybe I'll write happiness instead." 

And so her pages begin to fill up with bubbles and sunshine.

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