She started writing her existence away from the moment she saw light in the world. Chapter after chapter of her life was scribbled unto paper, imprints of memories that read more real that ecstasy or experience. She had the power and the penance of turning people into characters, places into scenes, and the past into plots, thus becoming a voice without a body and a mind with a page to fill. Words were her only essence, for language possessed her, inscribing her existence as an epic and erasing any dull parts, including herself.
No one ever read her words. She made sure of that. Her signature and success was the silence, the absence of praise and the lack of critique. She had to write, not listen or be heard—that was for artists, for egos, and she was just a writer, prescribed to document life as a text and author stories that described a reality that belonged to no one, only her notepads and bookcases.
She was writing history that could not be forgotten, for it would never be known. For that, history wouldn’t absolve her writing, but oblivion.