It was never a conscious decision. It simply happened. the pencil and the blank notebook had always been there. She picked up the pencil and wrote.

She wrote her thoughts and found that the words seemed to flow. Everything she had been feeling in her mind seemed to bleed through the pencil onto the paper. Her pain, her loneliness, her wishes all manifested themselves onto the black sheet. Before the mental hermorraging had stopped,she had written ten full pages.

At the end of those ten pages she was able to breathe and her head did not feel so cluttered. She kept writing. She kept trying to catch those stray thoughts fluttering through her mind and kept trying to pin down her unsteady consciousness. Weeks passed and she had filled two notebooks and did not want to stop. It became her escape and her way to cope. In her books she could purge all the bad feelings and confusion and preserve all the good feelings and happy memories.

It was never a conscious decision to write. It was a need.