The walls of her room were devastatingly beautiful.
The girl was a mystery. When she was furious, she wrote. When she was ecstatic, she wrote. When she was despondent, she wrote. When she was stressed, she wrote. When she was lost, she wrote. When she was content, she wrote. And yet, writing occupied very little time in her life. Reality was, she wrote on her neurons; there she wrote, erased, scratched, and rewrote, letting only her mind know. She wrote new endings, better beginnings, and middles of her liking. She made every story, her story. She spent so much time nestled in her mind that often, her neurons had to push her out.
And that was when she wrote on actual paper. Paper was therapy. Paper was her solution, her ointment, her bandage, her balm. It supported her exhaustive thoughts when her mind could no more handle her. But there were times it failed to understand her. That was when she turned to the pencil, and worked it on any surface available-the soft graphite bore her thoughts bravely.
And that is how those walls came to be.