The story simply must be told of an ancient girl, bright eyed and relentless, who had taught herself that the possibilities in this world were endless.

She sits far in the back, unheard, unseen.  Her hands sometimes clasping and unclasping.  Her energy is deceptive, it channels in myriad  ways, renewing itself along the way.

She was scribbling away on scraps of paper, while the reels in her mind played on.  There was something about the way the world called when she walked the rooms of her mind. It was telling her the secrets of the past and future, the lives and loves she had known before, or not yet discovered. How sweet the breath of chance can be, when we ride alongside and then cross its path.

She didn’t know what prompted it, but a single tear fell as she looked at the full blank pages before her.  There were stories to be told, stories that must be written.

The world is large, I am old and cannot sing a love song without crying, she thought with a smile. But when we are old we know better, and arrest the development of a smile no longer. She knew she didn’t have to make her smile pretty and win the world some roses.  She clasped her hands with joy and let the thought rest in her lap. The thought was marshalled to the garden in her mind where flowers bloom and deserts form.

Like carrying a bright blue mildewy flower, she let the past fall like petals to the ground.  She made a promise to walk with diamonds on her feet, the more they sparkled, the more she would kick her heels and dance.  And the weight that once rested upon her shoulders now carried the promise of a million tiny possibilities.