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She sits on her favorite chair and thinks, "what is it that I am to write?" The question stirs her peace, and often she sighs in disbelief - that after months of practice and toil, she still struggles with what words to scribe. That last is a product of the good old thing that has kept her writing ever since good words that rarely come from her own bank - thesaurus is the name. She thinks that she can live without the friend that is; but once she tries to look for a word that means write, nothing comes but transcribe, which barely fits the thought that she tries to put across.

Sometimes, she's led to think, "am I really a writer?" Lurking in her soul is a spirit that yells yes, for it is the passion that matters in this fight; pen against pen. Yet there really is no battle, for the time and thought writers spare are so little. Somewhere as deep as that spirit lies an injured part so gravely hurt by all the failings to substitute a word for another and to phrase well what she means; shouting a loud no to protect her from the prospective falls in the art of the written word.

Little by little, she starts to think, "should I even write?" In the midst of her dry and sesquipedalian prose, she sees herself as a writer, seemingly shrouded by the length of the works that fail to produce a spark holding the reader from start to finish (they may, from start to sleep). Her imagination takes her to places, but it is not enough to take her to write about worlds unmet by this world. Yet when the gun is put to rest, she finds herself craving for one last shot at it, to hear the bang of each and every try, that even if she often falls short, will be enough to keep her satisfied for the meantime.

She begins to look for reasons and thinks, "is it worth the costs?" The risks, the fear, the wishes, and the natural tendency to compare - those are the costs. For one who has so little, she is right to understand that she has nothing to lose in this game, yet nothing to gain as well, except for the drive and the flame that is kept burning by her insurmountable attempts to write something worth reading. It's much to gain, she assures herself and smiles at the promise.

And then again, she asks, "am I trying too hard?" Especially when straying from the usual style, one really has the right to ask in such honesty. Yes, she is trying, but not too hard. Trying may be the only thing that characterizes her as an artist, so too hard is never true. She tries and tries, failing and succeeding in the way. In this game, one can never say that she has tried hard enough. For enough only holds true for those unwilling to take themselves to another mile farther from the point where their presents lie.

As she continues to sit on her favorite chair to think, filling her minds with questions that she may never answer, I pat her on the back and tell her to go on, whispering softly in her ear to never forget what one has told her before; that even in writing, "a flower blooms in its own time, and definitely, it will, from where it has been planted."