by Sarah Lampsa, Writer
She sits in her place, the worlds tumbling from her mouth as water, flowing from the rocks of shallow falls. Each sentence, a story. Each paragraph, a universe. The phrases color her blank slate of a mind, throwing splashes of black in areas left untouched and bright orange in what was otherwise blue. These words release every frustration, every ounce of anger, every misfortune she has faced. It's been so long since her last word was spoken, but now they won’t stop. She doesn’t want them to stop. Does a waterfall ever run out of water? Can the climate changing around it dry up its beautiful falls? The temporary setbacks of her own feelings and her own dramas have only delayed the inner writer to come. She misses not that person, but the words she spewed at once. Feelings plastered across a page to portray only the deepest, the sincerest of momentums. The dwellings deep, deep beneath our inner layers of brain that are only in a great while released. This is what makes her powerful. This is what gives her herself back. This is why she writes only in the night.
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