It was time.


It was time. She’d fought against it for so long.  Over a decade had passed, and she could hear the words spoken and feel the emotions that coursed through her. She could still stand in that time, like it was the present.  She knew it then, and she still knew it to this day.  The story had to happen.  A dream of hers from the time she was a child, the tale was never fully put together until those moments unfolded so many years ago.  These were the words that would run through her head, day after day after day.  She tried to start, and it felt right.  But, the story would inevitably need buried after one harsh afternoon of seeing the words play out in front of her.  It was the story that would free her, the story that would be her greatest mark on this world and finally end all the wrongs.  But writing it was horror:  Stabbing pain.  Gut-wrenching truths.  Reflections that burned the senses.  Four long years since she willed herself to write the first line, and she knew that the life she was living gained no more meaning than it did when she chose to turn her back on each chapter.  She feels the slow desire churning with each day that her talent is hidden away, and the restlessness has become impossible to ignore. It was time.



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