Last night, I held a novel to read. I opened it, and read and enjoyed and wondered about the author, what they were thinking since they’d sent their words to the world and if they know how beautiful they are, and that at that very moment, I was reading their words and they’d never know me, never know I smiled, and then closed the book with satisfaction, turned out the light, and dreamed.
. . . there is a woman, who wakes up beside her husband, and goes to the bathroom, and as she relieves herself, she sighs, and gets up, washes her hands, washes her faces, and tries not to look into the mirror, but she does, accidentally she looks into the woman in the mirror, and all the days of her life slam into her, and she pushes back her hair, and listens to the breathing of her husband, and suddenly, the world tilts and rearranges and she thinks of the woman she was meant to be…she pulls on old clothes not fashionable…and she slips out of the bathroom, down the hall, out the front door, down the sidewalk, her feet slapping against the cement–where is she going?
Where is she going? . . . you tell me . . . I want to know . . . where do your words take this woman? Listen to the whispers . . .