The Day I Met the Strangest Writer

I entered the room and found her buried in work. There was a very intense look on her face. I saw the arching of an eyebrow, the quiver of firm lips, the narrowing of the eyes, the curling of the tongue in the jaw, the thoughtful lowering of the head, the quick return of the head toward the sky, and the sharp stabs of lead on the paper, as flashes of words came from the pencil, like a magician’s toy shop, displaying its wonderful wares.

The writer wrote in silence, ignoring any interference around, shutting out the rest of the world, and letting the whispered voices of the silent world speak to her in a language that she knew best, and with such fluency expressed.
I was intrigued by the world of the child-writer that I had come across and was privileged to encounter. It fascinated me and, in some strange, unexplained way, reminded me of myself, of a long past time when I, perhaps, had first communicated with the ancient spirits who had revealed to me their marvelous world.

I took one last look at this intense child-writer. She was standing now, but the beautiful words continued to flow effortlessly from her magical instrument — the blue pencil that seemed so special; like a fairy wand, transforming the world around it. As I meditated on the special show that I was privileged to witness, I  decided to capture the occasion in transcription, by recording it just as it was occurring, and had occurred. In doing so, I joined the flow of the current of wonderful creation.
Now we both worked in tandem — father and daughter— letting our souls pour out and surprise us with their secret contents. Moments had passed by, time seemed so relative; but in that magical moment, nothing really mattered, but the outpouring of our inner voices.