Her back aches. The books got too heavy. She couldn’t read them. The language was ambiguous and chapters continued in disdainful jargon. She felt like pages were missing in places and piled in others.
She tried learning to decipher the words. But she lost the battle. She tried getting it translated. But no one else could interpret it. She had to go back. And start at page one. And watch the pages turn into chapters. And let the weight leave her. As pages flew from her grip and floated away. Emboldened. And she was free. Everything her mind told her not to do she did. Everything the pain told her she needed she let go of. And piece by piece the puzzle joined together. From corner piece to middle she formed great mosaics of colour.
She had to go back to go forward. Around to go straight. Look down to see up. She had to love the blemished paper before she could turn it over. She had to experience the paper cuts. And only when she knew the story did she realises which characters were most important. In ways she could never have imagined.
And so she understood. She had to publish her book or she would never know what it could have been. Who it could have reached. For she saw light in the most painful chapters. In the most hurtful words she found space. In the most shameful moments lay lessons. In the failures she discovered victories. And in the moments she thought she had crumbled she found strength.