Winter

I'm a writer, who hasn't written in a long while.

I feel the rust grinding in my gears as I write now. But the longer I go the more my thoughts collide and swirl and collect inside me.

I have to sweep them out of me sometimes lest they suffocate me with their magnitude.

They need somewhere to go.

A song.

A poem.

A book.

A deep conversation with a friend.

But sometimes although there are many people willing to talk.

Maybe even willing to just listen.

BUT

there is nobody who needs to talk.

As you do.

Who hungers to talk and talk of ideas and dreams, and the future and past. And the connections it makes and hash it out till there is nothing left to speak of. 

They are either not ready,

or already done hashing it all out. But nobody is in the same place.

And it feels quite lonely.

So I write.

Because we can meet in different places, at different times and discuss and think together and say what needs to be said unconstrained by time or distance.