She sat in front of her computer, typing away furiously.

She wrote and cried, wrote a bit more, bit her lip, clawed at her face, but she continued nevertheless.

She shook, she shivered.

Dabbing her eyes with a tissue; she tried to let her mind rein in on her emotions. She took a deep breath, moved back and forth on her chair.

You can do this, she repeated to herself, while touching her keyboard fondly.  

The shivers returned. 

She was a writer, and an accomplished one at that. Words opened new worlds for her. She believed in their power to drive change, to drive her into a new story. She also knew the fatal power they had. She had used them, far too many times, with heaps of success.

She decided what they meant, what they conveyed. 

When the letter arrived today, the words, her one true friend, suddenly seemed alien to her. They were neither charming, nor blunt. They were just a scramble of letters, threatening to push her into the unknown. 

She realized the meaning of her words would change. She knew her view of life would change. A new meaning, a new form. Her imagination, her means of sustenance in this dark world, would be stuffed into a tiny little corner, overshadowed by what would come.

She had made peace with the discomfort over the last twenty years. What she did, earned her enough money to keep her going for a lifetime. She enjoyed her work and lost days together, immersing herself in it. 

But now, at this point in life, she wasn't expecting it, and honestly thought she wasn't in need of it. But she couldn't refuse it. She had to do it, not for herself, but for her family, who raised her and loved her.

With little time on her hands, she made her choice. With a new found resolve. She decided to have the surgery the next day.

Tomorrow she would see strange things, as a stranger in an unseen world. 

She stilled her shakes. 

She went back to writing. One last time. One last story on her braille keyboard.