The Writer’s Epitaph

She was simple, in ways that could touch every string in your heart with every word that she wrote. Each sentence truer than the one before.

It flowed smoothly like a river but hit you like rainfall on a stormy night. When you met her, she was calm and quiet almost like having a secret life of her own. But when she wrote, she invited you in to a whole new world. A world full of secrets that could never be spoken out loud but everyone knew existed. A world where good triumphed over evil and love over hate, but in order to keep the balance once in a while the bad guy got the pot of gold and broken hearts were all that you could see them walk over, each piece cutting into his skin leaving a sting like a silly old paper cut.

Her words filled pages like love poured onto your soul; when all you had left was the sad sorry world looking right at you but you knew that her words were the only salvation you’ll ever know and that in order to survive, you had to breathe it.

She was a writer, not just for those who liked to read but for those who didn’t. She wrote words that travelled through your ears and fell upon your heart, landing softly, drawing you into her pages like a vast ocean filled with life, the deeper you went in, the more beautiful everything became.   

She was whole and yet incomplete, and from her words she made you feel like that didn’t matter. What mattered is what you felt in that moment and in that moment you were a complete circle and nothing could stop you from believing otherwise.

She wrote, and all if it, she wrote for you.

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