Diary

“Dear Diary,” she wrote, her pen poised pointed and sharp, thoughts twirling swirling cavorting in the air risking life and limb and maybe some blood. 5 The ink sat waiting, impatient, annoyed, for the clarity to settle in, for the words to coalesce into some form of sanity. But somewhere in the woven threads of thought when the next swipe of the pen touched 10 the puritanical canvas that threatened her equilibrium, there came not a letter formed, not a word whispered, but another kind of line — the dancing marks finding their own path, their own mind. Words protested, “No! It is our turn!” but were ignored 15 in favor of the image spilling forth from within — a wounded dragon, reared back in a rage, hissing and spitting flames of pain and fury, pierced through the heart by a spear of loneliness and neglect. The pen flew, spatters of ink transforming into blood and tears. 20 Words retreated, knowing they'd lost the battle, soundly defeated by a power they could not match, even a thousand strong. At last, she lay, silent, sated, staring at the open page, wondering when the next attack would come.