Well, it seems I am not alone in my emptiness.
She sits, as I do, at her keyboard, and the beauty of her mind turns the feelings into words that can allow her to pour out her pain onto the page and perhaps, just perhaps, ease the tightness and relax her emotions.
Some people talk about it. Some people hide it. Others, like us, the WordOnes, write it down.
I have nothing in particular to remind me today. Only the lingering hurt that crouches like a small child just under my ribs. Every now and again it uncurls itself and stretches arms and legs and body to reach far down into my stomach and up to the base of my neck. It sighs and my throat tightens. It sighs and my shoulders tense. It sighs and my fingers twitch. In my momentary panic I obey it's commands and I feel the fear rise up through my gullet to stain my tongue with the bitter taste of soured truth. Such power this small child has.
But sometimes the elf that brings to mind such saturating memories also brings a slight relief. With a laughing word she cuts a cord and it flicks back to sting at my skin and release a breath full of thanksgiving. A Uni course. A healthy body. A job. With each tiny bit of news she unlocks a further portion of my tiny hidden cage and lets out a little more freedom. The relief is incredible.
And then suddenly all the doors slam shut. A punch in the stomach. A thud round the side of the head. A broken rib. She didn't mean it, I know. She didn't know.
Does she have a place she goes? Or a place she avoids? Is her music disunited and segmented as mine is? We take refuge in our loved ones. But when all else fails we return to our writing. What else is there to do? We are the WordOnes.