The wick burns low in the candle,
swimming in purple wax.
Lavender permeates her office.
She bends lower over her notebook.
Most people don’t have the patience to write long hand like this.
Even typing is archaic.
Why type when you can use technology
to make the words flow directly from your brain
to virtual paper?
It even works for pictures.
Anyone can be an artist now.
In the dim light, she finishes the next chapter of her story.
Anyone can publish now.
There is no industry, only individuals.
Yet, she doesn’t publish anymore.
As she lets the candle blow itself out,
she glances at the picture framed beside her desk.
It’s old paper, yellowing slightly, and
the sketch is in pencil, light strokes.
It’s of her sitting on her bed when she was young.
Her hair falls to her shoulders in squiggly waves,
and her eyes are anime style.
Anime is still popular.
But this picture isn’t like the other anime.
This picture is imperfect.
The pillows and blankets are faded,
but the bed frame is oddly dark.
The lines are messy and uncertain.
And you can still see some of the eraser marks.
Still, she’s had it framed for awhile now.
The frame covers most of the artist’s signature.
A common first name and a dated last name.
This woman doesn’t exist now.
She put her pencil down, walked away,
and the writer wishes she could do the same.