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All her life she wished the words would come. She waited, dreamt of it. Bought pretty notebooks, every size. She had every size. White paper, recycled paper, all of it.

But somehow the words never came. Once in a while yes but not really.

Finally she writes. She writes. And no she never writes in those pretty notebooks. She writes. Anonymously. For herself. She wishes to pen down her life, her story. Not really wanting to share it with somebody and it's not for the fear of not being understood, it's just that theres no need. But somehow now from some corner of her heart creeps up the desire that somebody would read.