She Found Them Again

I know her. Very much. 

These are words from a soul that cannot be contained; realizing she left so much unsaid. Remembering that she could still write to you like this, even if she wouldn’t get it right away.

Remember how eager she was to write as she sat up and grabbed her pens and notes, eager to inscribe her life away in those tiny biros.

Remember how her mind went blank and she could hardly will herself to re-enumerate and summarize everything like she usually does.

She, of all people, knows so well that there must be some degree of cohesion, some sort of angle to what she is about to write for it to make sense, and thinking of years in all its shades of madness, she could not, for the life of her, put that haunting montage into words that could string the whole experience together; she, who always had the words for everything, could not define it.

What is it called when she knows the words for something, but she isn’t sure if they’re the right ones, so she doesn’t use them altogether?

Remember how puzzled she was at her lack of words.

Did her mind do her a favor and wipe itself clean with the start of another year, or did she unconsciously will herself to forget because she no longer knew what and how to feel?

There’s something definitely wrong with this. With her.

As she found a cozy little nook to be alone with her thoughts, the weighty rain breeze ever so slightly tousling and cooling her head, remember how the words came back to her.

Remember that they were actually always there, waiting for her to cup them into her hands; constantly drawing back and kissing her fingers, coaxing her to write them down despite her wariness of them.

Remember how the words showed themselves to her.

Remember how she forgave herself for not having the words earlier and thanking herself for finding them again.