She bends the world to her imagination.
She turns pictures into art. Turns them into stories. She makes clouds, waves, red maple leaves, gowns, emeralds, murals, and she makes spirits, faery rings, unicorns, firebirds. She holds them in her mind, streaking glimmers of color across her inner sight.
Ink and paper create her scrying pool. It is the only way for her eyes to see what her mind conceives. And once on paper, her ideas live.
She finds it easy to turn these things into words, but she can’t explain herself.
One day she meets someone.
She thinks he sees her. She wills him to see her. But he does not see as deeply as she first thought. She watches him walk away over and over again.
In her mind, maybe he sees her fully. Maybe their bodies meet. But those images remain there, not put to paper. Too vulnerable, too raw. They remain with the other thoughts she cannot bear to see inked. This, because if she does see it, she wants it to be real.
(First draft – freshly pressed. Comments – can/should this go anywhere?)