Everywhere she turned, she heard music. It took some time before she realized that it was coming from her. She was the source.
She had always known it was buried deep within her. Sometimes it almost surfaced, got loud enough so that she actually began to hear words along with the melody. Lyrics–they must be lyrics; part of a song, a story. A lyrical story. And she wanted, no she needed to hear it.
Perhaps she needed to sing it, but how could she, if the words were not clear?
She felt as if she was a bell just learning how to ring. Ring with a capital R. Add the word Right, to that. Didn’t she have the right to hear the music inside of her?
Why else would it be there, if not for her to hear?
My Days Matter 