When anger fueled her war within.

And as slowly the acoustics of Bibi Sanam Janem started playing, she launched herself into ink and paper. Writing whatever found her vocabulary, all the stories that found her, unleashing the story teller in her... morphing non-ficiton into fiction, once again.
She was angry, she was so angry that the impressions of her writing pressed harder and harder on the back of the parchment. But they took it well, because in all her anger, in all her state of being intimidated and overwhelmed by everything around her, what she wrote thundered with power like an angry ghost, like a reining knight, like the torchbearer of a war within, like a hope that was fighting to be discovered by the blind mortals running in the rat race of emotion.
Beads of sweat slowly appeared on her creased forehead, shy in the beginning, but gathering out finally, stark naked and boldly transparent, acting alibis to the unfair turmoil that built with greater vigour every time, with every word she scratched out, with every full stop she defined. She always knew madness let her write. She always vented everything out while she wrote, and labelled it a fiction, owning up to denial, for her own good.

She wrote every story that hit her. She spoke of every person who managed to catch the attention of a subconscious mind that was floating around the world, gathering bits and pieces of the thousand stories that met the horizon of her storytelling lips every day.
Tonight, she was going to write. And no body was going to stop her.
She felt angry- so angry at the outside world for edging her away, and she yelled back at her parchment- the one faithful listener she always had.

"She expresses best when she writes" ; the world said.

And tonight, she was going to prove them right, and appal them to the violence that fought in her.
Tonight, she was going to fight a battle which was claimed to be lost, but tonight, she'd either win it, or let the bloody night take over her corpses. The corpses of a fighter.

-Nil.