'I don't know what's happening to me, I have lost all my words.'
She just looked at me silently. I knew she knew what I was saying.
'It's almost as if, what I most enjoyed doing isn't something I really enjoy anymore. Despite that realization, though, I really want to.'
She looked at the sky. She sighed.
'I want to write. But it is rather like, writing doesn't want to be bothered anymore. Even if I want to bother it, it's resisting. I can feel it, or rather hear it, telling me to go away. It's sending out vibrations at me, telepathically telling me to get lost. I'm not sure if I should be sad or relieved. That's what confuses me.'
The corner of her mouth turned wryly. She knew exactly what I felt. And despite the frustrating silence, I didn't want it to be anything else. This is how it was with us. We just understood.
'I always feel that writing was my passion. But how could it be a passion if I let it go so easily? That would indicate I don't really want it, right? That I don't really care? Or maybe not. Maybe it's because I care too much, and I know I can't force it to happen. It would be like forcing someone you loved to serve you at every whim and fancy, always at your beck and call. Maybe.'
She giggled. Shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. May be. May. Spring.
'Well, yeah. Sure. Maybe you're right. I guess it's just a season where I can let the cold cover me down, where my thoughts buried over with snow can find its roots again, maybe let my thoughts simmer and stew, find itself anew. I'll always love writing, but writing needs time to nurture itself as well. I guess we'll find out.'
She, with her bare branches, seemed to nod. She loved her leaves, and would wait for them too.