It wasn't that the words had been dried up for so long. They were there all along, waiting. Waiting to be written. They were trying to speak to her but she put a damper on them, stifling them, telling them that they didn't mean anything. Because the words were hers. And she didn't yet believe in her words.
Now there is a furious, furious scribbling. Ink on her finger and a cramp in her hand. The written words can't keep up. So precious, she's afraid they'll escape. You see, there's freedom in words and with each scratch of the pen she sets a little bit of herself free.
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