Not words
Not words. Not empty canvases. It is just waiting, because something is coming up. Something must be coming up.
And so she murmurs, at night, every night. She closes her eyes and she is certain that this is not forever. It can not be. And in that way she tries to save herself because otherwise she would have died by now.
But there is always tomorrow and that means there is always hope. Even if that hope is hopeless.
She tears apart the papers since letters are of no use to her anymore.
Days become weeks, then months, then years.
The course of life takes over her own life which seems to make no sense to her so she ignores it.
Rain makes her blue but also brings the memories of what was which also makes her think of what might come. She hates the sun but the blue sky soothes her. Everything is fine when you know your story has not yet begun.
Only the words still escape her and the canvas stays white and hope is nothing but an illusion diverting her from life.
anlena
