I Am Not A Writer

We all have our struggles from time to time.

Whether we call it our muse or our voice or our talent, makes no difference.

The truth lies in the knowledge that the words we write are fleeting.

Some days they flow easily, like a mighty river, with limitless possibility.

Other days they stutter, we pull them one by one painstakingly, our hearts unable to speak coherently.

The words are like raindrops on the scorched earth.

For a while now I haven’t felt.

When I write, the words ring hollow.

I don’t feel the emotions flow from my fingertips as I did before.

The words I write don’t seem to have any deeper meaning than the ink on the page.

Is it true then, am I merely forestalling the inevitable truth?

I am not a writer.