her head, she thought, had always been full of ideas,
just the way a lightbulb
might be filled with light.
it had always been that way, she thought,
and sometimes a something good might come out, onto the paper.
but it didn’t usually,
and when it did,
it was good,
nearly too good.
they stared and oohed and aahed-
but no, she thought,
they didn’t really get it,
but then, neither did she, only knew that it was
big and peculiar
and that it would always be there,
like a memory, or a photograph.
and sometimes it would work,
and gears would spin and locks would click-
and when the words stopped coming,
she told them,
she read to them,
and they would say,
oh, it’s so good!
but then she realized-
didn’t they know she wanted it to be more than good?
couldn’t they tell?
but she also realized
that the words would never stop coming,
so she came to a conclusion-
the words were all she had.