Blending of the Winds

It's one of those nights that's chilly but not cold.  It's not the stinging sort of breeze, but the pleasant kind.  The one that carries not so much smells as memories.  It's too cold to smell anything, but warm enough that trees have started to bloom and the world is starting to feel alive again.  Finally.  After the long, bitter winter that lasted three months too long.

And with the warmth come the memories.  Like a monsoon of thoughts, emotions, memories, everything floods back at once, and things from years ago interfere with ones that happened only recently, and a tide of things rushes in a whirlwind that swirls everything into a mass of sensation.  Pure, undiluted sensation.  Nothing can interfere with the rush because in spring, everything comes back, all of the pieces fall back into place, it is as though time never passed, as though the springs of years past never left.

In this ecstatic rush of emotion, the raging storm of everything changing and equalizing and finding back its natural place, nothing is ever clear as spring brings revival and change and growth.  And it isn't the change that fall is where everything starts to fall apart, but rather this miraculous time when things start to come back together and new things arise.  And with each new thing comes a memory of times past, of days that can never be gotten back, of memories that can be retrieved only through the mind.

I miss being able to write.  I miss that desperation that felt sincere but not overdone, the kind that strove to accomplish something without pushing past reason.  And I don't seem to be able to reach that point anymore. Everything feels either overdrawn or just hits a dead end beyond which I can't write.  I'm stressed and frustrated and would really like this next week to hurry up and be done already.