A Vent

Words seemed to come naturally to her. She would scribble, type, and even record her words. To her, every single, seemingly insignificant thing had a story to tell. And she just had to pen it down.

Her study was littered with scraps, notes and papers. Her laptop cluttered with drafts, documents and logs. In the literary world, she would be called a victim of Virginia Woolf virus. Psychiatry, however, would note it to be plain obsessive-compulsive disorder. It didn’t seem to bother her.

Her words seemed to have a mind of their own. Sometimes they constructed the perfect story, absolutely flawless and spellbinding. Sometimes they would be poignant, other times, sharp and witty. Some mere ramblings, almost incomprehensible and incoherent. No matter what the emotion, they always seemed to flow effortlessly. And they always brought a smile on her face

Yes, they used to. She doesn’t write anymore.

No, it wasn’t a response to a tragic loss. She isn’t dead or worse, comatose. She wasn’t left heart broken. She just turned to a fresh, new page.

She paints now. She doodles and draws. Her study is littered with artwork and canvases. Her laptop is cluttered with illustrations and drawings. She seems to have caught the Picasso bug. Her shrink still calls it OCD.

Needless to say, she doesn’t bother. She still smiles a lot.