Flat-lines and Fireflies

Every idea has run out of steam.

Every single snippet of literary wonder that I willed into existence is now stagnant and dull.

Every last word I have written down has slowly been losing my interest.

And yet, I still call myself a writer.

I guess I can't really call myself a writer, after all. It is said that the best writers are the best readers. If that is true, than I am no writer, by any stretch of the word. Seldom does a book catch my attention and hold me firm in it's grasp.

Then, if I'm not a writer, than I propose that I am story-teller. Ideas constantly flit back and forth like fireflies in the verdant garden of my mind, taunting my imagination and coaxing me into catching them and showing off their glow for all to see. A few have been caught, and they shone brightly for a short while. Then, just as quickly as they were caught, they were released back into the garden, where they would rest and recuperate until they were ready to be captured again.

Right now, the glass jar is empty. But I still cradle it gently in my arms, waiting for the next lone firefly to wander across my sight. As I wander within the dark forest of my mind, my eyes, my ears, my soul, they all keep vigilant watch for the one spark of light amongst the darkness.