She had always buried her passions. She tied them in rules and restrictions. She denied them the light of day, pushing them out of her mind with far less significant things. Her living room was always tidy, and the cabinet in her sparkling bathroom never held expired prescriptions or empty bottles.
At night when she lay down to sleep, her mind stilled of the mundane chatter of her days, her passions awoke. In dreams they sought her out, singing in the lonely voices of once beloved children now neglected. They haunted her dark hours, pale phantasms, whispering sadly. Always she awoke with a sense of longing. A dark blue ache over which she quickly flung the mundane cloak she had fashioned.
Years of denial had built her restlessness into a permanent sighing song inside her. Little by little, the buried yearning of her soul began spilling into her grey, safe world. She found herself staring out of windows, watching the wind sway the trees and stringing words together until they chimed in her mind. Soon the rhythmic tapping of her heels on the pavement became the meter of poems she would compose on the backs of her carefully categorised shopping lists.
The orderly face of the structured and sensible world she had created gradually began to chip away, revealing a fascinating iridescence beneath. One day she looked up to find her perfectly tidy living room littered with coffee cups and the crumpled forms of a hundred discarded pages. The flowers in the vase had wilted, and hung papery and forlorn. Before her on the coffee table, lay a sheet of paper filled with lines of her handwriting. When she read the words she had written, she realised at last that a tide of creative creation had been unleashed which she had no hope of ever denying again. She smiled.