She always suspected that her misery was her muse. During the lows the words would take over her being, standing outside herself watching something real finally happening in her life. She would read back the words and feel at ease, emptied of angst.
On the good days she was without: no words to spill. On the good days the thoughts chased themselves around her mind and detached before completion. On the good days she’d sit and wonder what it was she would do with her life. Never did she believe that writing was a talent, assuming everyone could write; everyone has a story, everyone has something to say. Then the days turned into months and the pages remained blank, all because her neurosis was at bay.
Her good days were actually her worse.