There's this one chick.
I'm not going to embarrass her by naming her here. She'll know who she is.
I think she's a fantastic writer. I've felt that way since I first discovered her, what seems like years ago, but I wasn't really able to say why I liked her writing so much. I mean, I was physically capable of saying it, and there was never any prohibition against saying it, I just couldn't find the proper words to describe my reasoning.
I may have found the words.
When I first read her journal, for a few joyous minutes, I thought she was someone else. Too quickly, I learned the truth, and I was a little disappointed with that knowledge. I wanted the person I thought she was, I wanted her to be the one writing those beautiful words.
Since then, I've gotten to know the real person behind those flowing phrases and I'm no longer disappointed. I'm blessed, and I'm glad that I was wrong when I thought she was someone else.
But the thing is, even though I know who's really doing the writing, when I read her words they go straight to my heart and, for just an instant, I forget what I know. For just an instant, I imagine that someone else writes those words. Sometimes I even imagine that I write them myself.
Her writing does that for me. It speaks the words that my heart wants to speak, but cannot. Or, it lets my heart hear the words that it's dying to hear, but which would not be spoken otherwise. That's why I think she's a fantastic writer - because her words, once written, don't need her anymore. Her words, once written, go to where they are needed the most, and they give voice to what would otherwise be silent.
Her words fill the silence in my soul with music that it can dance to. Even when it's a sad song, it feels good to dance.