"The... the... the..."
Her hand falters. She keeps repeating the same word, the same notes. They become ingrained in both our minds. She realizes what to write next and hits a few piano keys while adding another word to the lyrics she was making up out loud. Some time passes as she works on the next part of the song.
"My... my..."
Each piece of the song she works on starts to come into being. Realization spreads across her face when she figures out what to write next; her eyes are at first full of confusion and suffering and then they soften as she comes across a note that rings right. And repeat.
Sometimes, she can only get one small section done and I have to come back the next day or the next few days while she thinks it over and prepares herself. It's an arduous process - especially for her.
I watch the different emotions flicker across her face. They are separate pieces of one whole; they are part of one story, one song. I watch her. When she struggles too much, I help her by talking her through it a little. But most of the time, she doesn't really see me. She is exploring inside herself. I enjoy the music as a result - all of it. I enjoy the process, the emotions, the notes, the words.
The... the... the...
These small, repeating pieces are all part of creation. I watch her.