I used to envision my inspiration as a well. A well in my mind where I could pull up thoughts, words, sentences, stories, tales, and pour them into my computer, onto paper. Pull them out from deep inside of me. A bottomless well, a source which would never run empty.

Sometimes the inspiration was not a well, sometimes it was in the air, fluttering next to me, as butterflies. Just as sparkling and light. And all I had to do was to reach out and let them land in my mind.

But now, when I reach out to find the words, there si nothing more than empty air. The butterflies are gone. Sometimes I can see them at the side of my vision, but when I turn around to look at them, they are gone. Sometimes I can feel them flutter just on the edge of my mind, but when I try to make them land, there is nothing there.

Where I used to be able to find vast pools of ideas, words, phrases, I can now find nothing. There are nothing there, it feels empty when I poke it. My mind has dried up. How much I dig into where the used to be so much, I can now find nothing. Sometimes, i think I can feel something just underneath, but it always turns out to be nothing, another rock. Another rock. 

It didn't use to be like this, once I could write about everything. I didn't even have to reach out to find the words, the words would effortless come pouring into me. I could sit night after night, and pour my thoughts out into my computer. It seemed the source were never going to empty. I did not even create the words, the stories, the tales, I was just the medium. I could not run dry! But now, I find the well empty and dried up. Single phrases and sentences swirl around in my head, but there are no connections between them. And when I try to pin them down onto paper or into my conpmuter, they flutter away from me, and I am left empty handed again.