Ske kept walking.
Much to her dismay, her life was a proverbial cadence, with interruptions of heartaches and loneliness. The block ahead of her was planted with bushes of grenades and bullets, held for vengeance from jealous schoolmates and her past lovers. There was not a care in her walk, strolling as if the evening sun has not set. It was nearly dark and she was alone. The pebbles underneath her sneakers clinked as she walked, yet she was great at ignoring the chronic disturbance.
She kept walking.
A man asked for her name, "Tamar," she said. But, her brother Absalom has gone great about his life, leaving an unwritten destiny in the hands of prophets who claimed to scribe on her behalf. Her beleaguered life left traces of post-traumatic-stress-disorder and depression, much to the benefit of those who wished for her death. The prayers she uttered whilst in motion flew to the heavens, only for God to hear, yet no one obeyed.
She kept walking.
The times she felt discouraged were masked with a smile left unnoticed because the wilderness in her heart matched not her demeanor. What would one call her if she was a friend? A poignant fiction? or a working progress? The evening birds sang to her as their melodies tuned in D Major, but she listened to the soft still voice inside their bellies, that sung more than melancholy.
She kept walking.
Time left her behind, as the human race fast forwarded to an unexpected pandemic. Her only friend was her inherited art, entertaining her mind, often by herself. Vivaldi's Four Seasons serenaded her throughout her life, and left the busy walkers with a scent of grace. Perhaps this life was meant to stall, a book forever in writing, and a heart forever longing.
She kept on walking.
Just write.