She wove. Guiding the thread through the canvas before her.
Words ran through her mind.
The cruel words, of scoffers.
"You have no talent" and "You're a fraud".
"What stupid ideas you have"
She shook her head, as if to dislodge the words. She continued painting, with the thread.
Finished now, she sat back to observe her work.
She saw it before her. The canvas - not canvas at all - but her notebook.
And the thread, - painting the picture - were the words of her story.
And the golden thread
- which was her very heart -
was woven, vulnerably, throughout.