She Wrote

A young girl woke up and scanned the world for a place to begin her life, sharpened pencil in hand.

As she ventured out, she bent down every once in a while and wrote green grass and rainbow flowers onto the dirty gravel. When she got to a building, she wrote pink hair, orange feet, and indigo eyes onto the walls. She gave herself a couple more colors and read it a few times over, editing here and there. When she was satisfied, she walked on the newly written grass over to her house. No one was there. She wrote family onto the living room wall and left.

* * * * * * * *

Deciding that the world’s sky was too dark, she wrote blue. On the flat clouds, she wrote puffy and on the dying sun, she wrote bright. That night, lying on her bed of words under the stars she wrote, she read her world. She knew her world but she had no clue who she was. And she was alone. She rolled over and wrote friend.

Scanning the landscape, the expansive horizon, the seemingly endless, lonely world, she unwittingly wrote the word afraid in her mind. She thought of her bubble–broken with her sharpened pencil as a young child–and wondered if she should’ve stayed inside.

* * * * * * * *

The young woman read her own words for the 15th year in a row. She didn’t like what she read even though she tried her best throughout the years. Not knowing what to do, she wrote tears on her face.

Quickly, she realized she was wasting time and tried to erase the tears from her eyes, but there was no eraser on the pencil’s end. She’d have to let them fade with time. With that in mind, she walked on to finish her story so that her mark may be made upon the world before she left it.

* * * * * * * *

The old woman glanced at her old memories, masterpieces and world. Back then, she thought she hadn’t much of a life. But in fact, she was writing it marvelously and facing the world valiantly. Since her younger years, she had transformed her scribbled words into exotic phrases and transfixing sentences.

With the now-dulled pencil lead, she wrote a smile on her cracked lips, light in her pale blue eyes, and love in her defeated heart. She no longer wanted an eraser. She knew all of her mistakes were fixable without one, and none of her memories needed erasing. Some of the sad faded away, smudged or overwritten, but the happy ones always stayed.

With this happiness, she read and read all that night until she fell asleep for the last time with a smile written on her face, dulled pencil in hand.

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