Her usual demeanor seldom changes. She is sitting where she often does in a state like this. That corner of her room has seen her in worse conditions. But today she has decided that she will not let restlessness overpower her, and she is hoping that this choice will do her some good.
Often when she writes, the ink gets scrambled on paper. She has tried to control it many times, but the pen has a journey of its own. She knows that she has the power over the paper though. She can with-hold what she likes. Or be cruel enough to crumple the secrets that uncontrollably reveal themselves on paper. And though she hardly uses it, she knows she has the power of choice. The luxury of choosing when to put that pen on paper.
If only she could have this power over herself. If only she could get that pen in control. She would not have anything written over herself. But paper hardly has power over itself.
Many have often told her that every blank sheet has its destiny written. It just has to be patient enough for its time to come. Resign perhaps to the fate that chooses the ink and font for it. And trust that fate with whatever its might is.
If only, she could say that to herself. Perhaps then, the pieces left of her would empower themselves. Perhaps then, out of what she writes, a story will emerge. A story she would want to tell.