She sat at the end of the bed holding her hands in a bundle of twisted fingers. The rain pitter-pattering softly against her windows. She let out a soft breath, giving her head a small shake. Her mind hadn't stopped for days. Full of the words that screamed louder then what was actually said, and to all the words that were craving to get out and to be shared with the world again. As a young adult, she held on to the fear of not being good enough, not amounting to anything, not feeling like she was special or could make a difference. Doubts upon doubts that it was too late to start now, what could she possibly say that hadn't already been said. So the words started to become quieter finding someone else to fill out their calling. Her breath caught in her throat, heart sinking heavy in her chest, as she was swallowed by the mattresses comfort of the mundane.
As a child it seemed so freeing, so natural, so apart of her that she didn't care who watched, read, or made comments because it just felt so good to write her soul out. Whether it was a fantasy story, lists of goals and aspirations, poems, or simply writing gibberish she could always rely on a pen and piece of paper to hear her. Yet as she started getting older the feelings of maybe it wasn't her gift began clouding her light. Maybe it was just a phase and she could only hold on to it as a child being read a fairy tale story. Holding onto the characters, castles and adventures while the book was being read. Yet when the book was over and years passed, so passed the stories that held her heart dearly at the time. As further time moved on she thought her child wonder like writing was short lived and somewhat magical only in those moments becoming a part of her distant memory. Shortly after she then began giving her power away to people around her who she cared about. Taking on their truths of her as if they were her own truth. The pen that came up every day had now found a home on her bedside table, the journals calling with endless possibilities and blank pages to be filled were left with stories untold. She tried over and over at different times in her life to pick up that pen again, but it never felt the same so she stopped picking it up. That light and exciting movement of her pen gliding on paper, the creative flow pouring out of her and the want...no the need of a story being written had disappeared.
Tears ran down her face as she stared out her window crying out to the universe. Her head falling back as she stared at the ceiling, tears running heavier. Bring back the words that want to be written, bring back the small voice that coaxed her heart to pick up the pen and bring colour to the pages. Let that lump in her throat become her voice. Screaming, swearing, and cursing all those who told her she wasn't good enough to write. To voice her opinion to let herself be heard as she had once long ago. Not be silenced by her family, her friends, schools, workplaces and others she didn't even know! The only person she was writing to now was the person inside of us all, the little light in us that whispers softly to shine your light and be bright. Call it God, call it the universe, call it Morgen Freeman's voice, call it whatever you have too but write, dance, paint, explore, sing, just create and let yourself be heard by it again. Once she un-layered her hurt, her scares, her fears, and took back her power did she find her voice. It came slowly at first jumbled and not making much sense but it felt right so she went on, and with time she gained momentum her pen becoming a keyboard, and then it became the story you are now reading, and damn did it feel good.
Wiping the last of the tears from her rosy cheeks with her sleeve, she took a deep clearing breath. Pausing before unravelling her fingers onto the keyboard of her laptop. A small smile began curving on her lips as fingers began clicking away, and she could hear the soft voice she knew quite well inside her whispering "Sing again little bird, Sing again"