by Joni Abilene
Writing is a lonely business. Opening a document is a cry into a black sky with severed stars that bleed and bleed and bleed. The world may never read my words, may never care about a single word or its meaning or the reason for my need. It’s a lonely act. Sometimes we grab our coats and walk into a world of strangers; sometimes I think the things I say are important. Sometimes I ache and writing is a salve. Other times I ache and writing is the burn of iodine. They both heal.