Dripping Ink

They were not his words. They were not her words. They were their words. Their thoughts and emotions put on paper. If she had felt him in his words, that was okey. He had felt her.

The poem was signed "Suomynona", but was not his poem. It was their poem. If it did not make sense to anyone else, so be it. It was something they shared, and treasured, and admired. It was the rope that kept them attached. Following the poem was a note. "Anonymous will no longer be writing for this paper. We will now accept submissions from any writer who wished to be featured and to have their words heard. He did not mind.

The next Sunday, he recieved a note. There was no signature, but he knew who it was from. The letter contained the draft of a story. It appeared as if hours of work were poured into it. There was crossing-out, and underlining. Some letters were small, some were bold. Under every line, there was space.Space to write additions, to edit this already great story, make it more. Add himself. Included was a container of golden ink. So he wrote.

He danced across the page, setting fire to it. Not a destructive fire, but a warming fire, a fire of creation that could only be made with two forces combined. He had yearned to write his own stories, but they were always missing something, and he now realized hers had been too. Together, their words would form together, become greater. The sum of its parts.

And they wrote. They never talked, not one formal greeting, no "how-do-you-do"s. But they communicated in the stories they sent. Some were complete, some were drafts. They were of every genre, all ideas written down and immediatly sent. There was no censorship, just the flowing of ideas annd thoughts.

He knew he would never meet her face to face, but that didn't matter. He knew her better than any sort of verbal conversation would allow. He was part of her, and she was part of him. They wrote for a long time, until he could no longer move his mouth to write words on the page. He hired an assistant to writes things for him. Although they never sent stories out, they had both attracted much attention, as the ponies that shared a mind. He would stare out the window, watching ponies go by, gaining idea upon idea. And they lived.

The Beginning