AN: Just wanted to do a little something to "celebrate" my 500th posted work!
We'll go for centuries on…
The chorus hung in the air like a fog, heavy and all-encompassing. Graverobber smirked and sneered in a dumpster below. Far away and far above, Shilo was sequestered in her room again, only this time, of her own volition. Freedom was far harder and scarier than she thought it would be, not at all the grand, glorious adventure she hoped it would be.
"Then again, maybe it was naive of me to expect it to be anything like what I saw in the movies…" Shilo sighed heavily. Having to contend with the reality that things were not as good as she hoped was a very hard pill to swallow, but she didn't really have any other option. Heh. Pill to swallow. Even after everything she'd been through, she was still taking some very bitter medication.
"I just don't know what to do…" To say that she felt lost and confused was an understatement. She felt frozen. Even her mind and thoughts were motionless. But her hands? Suddenly, they were flying across her computer keyboard, typing faster and faster. Stories, journals, thoughts, feelings, fears, it all came spilling out onto the screen.
We'll sing for centuries on…
Times were tough, and they would only get tougher, and that terrified Shilo, but just having the freedom and peace to write whatever she wanted filled her with the sort of hope and joy she thought only existed in the movies.
"Well, at least I've got that going for me," she smirked dryly to herself, but despite her dour expression and the precarious situation she now found herself trapped in, her fingers and heart soared like free birds. More and more words filled the page, plots and characters, epic and small, happy and sad, triumphant and pensive.
She was no novelist, no skilled author, but she was still a writer. To be a writer wasn't simply an action, hobby or career, but a very way of life, how she thought about and perceived the world, how she processed it. And even in her aching hour, she always turned to story and song to see her through to the other side so that she could chase the morning once again. She wrote anything and everything, sudden ideas and ideas that had spent years brewing in the back of her mind. It was all of the excitement and adventure she could ever hope for, and it bolstered her courage.
"If nothing else, at least I have this. And if nothing else, for all of the rest of my life, this is all that I want." The freedom, peace, and security to write and write and write for centuries on. And soon, all of her fears, doubts, anger, and pain turned into something much more beautiful. As long as she had writing, anything was possible.
To the very act of writing itself, I love you, I love you, I love you. And I hope that we will both live for centuries on…