Insomnia

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There was once a little girl. She was an extraordinary girl. She was no good at sports, maths, or singing in her school chorus. Her life was not extraordinary. She would wake up, eat breakfast, go to school, go home, do homework, eat dinner, go to bed, and then repeat. Monday through Friday until holiday. But there was just one thing that made her extraordinary. Writing. This little girl was often not able to sleep for her mind was far more creative than the minds of other little girls, so she would write and write and write until her mind was at peace, and she fell asleep. She wrote about everything under the sun, even things beyond the sun. Words that harboured under her ribcage during the day, afraid to trickle from her lips, would swim out at night and buzz around her room, her fingers barely able to keep up with them. She wore them like a story, and dressed up in a tale of imagination. She knit the words until the words in all of there splendour caused her a sharp intake of breath, and hit her lungs. And the last words would leak from her lips, like trembling crumbs at the bottom of a crumpled bag. Loops in word yarn. 

Created: Jun 10, 2012

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