Spinning straw into gold

I got lost in the woods once.
I was carrying tiny sparks of life. They glowed briefly, fiercely, then went out.
I wasn't prepared for how the dark swallowed me.
When I eventually found my way back, life beyond the edges of the trees blazed too bright. I missed the shadows. I made a place in the woods where I could hide from those who knew me and try to spin the tangled thoughts in my head into something that made sense. I left the door open in case there were others like me. It was a place much like this, but one by one the trees around it were felled. No longer hidden, too exposed, I closed the door and left.

This is my new place hidden deeper in the woods. I've been quiet here. The spinning wheel sits silent. Sometimes I wonder if I remember how to use it. The thoughts are different now, unfamiliar and unlikely, like straw. It's as though  I'm waiting for some Rumpelstiltskin to come along and turn it into gold. That didn't end well for the Miller's daughter and somehow I know this is my task alone.

"You are a writer. You need to write."
Those who know me name me when I won't name myself. They see what happens when I don't write; how tangled I become. Gifted with time and space, I promise to write, to spin the words that make me well.