Dust

Here’s a fictional story I wrote.
It’s about a fictional guy who is tired and kind of fed up, and is realising he’s no longer good at the thing that used to be unique about him – writing.

I think it’s called Dust, or something.

I’m at the junkyard again.
It must be because I’m tired. It’s where I always go when I’m tired, and I’m tired now. That must be it – because I’m tired.
It’s my sanctuary, my solitude. My solace. See, there’s little comfort there, except the cold old blanket of satisfaction. Satisfaction, but nothing more.
It’s all I really know.
I let the crumbling rubble of old similes and metaphors and clichés sieve through dry fingertips. I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting to find here. Perhaps, somewhere amongst this scrapheap of vocabulary, there are a few forgotten words which hang sweetly together. Perhaps somewhere in this labyrinth of language there are a few lost thoughts, ideas, notions. An suggestion here, a nuance there, even a golden nugget of allusion.
Perhaps nothing.
And so it is, like always, I leave the jumble sale empty handed. All I can do is clap the dust of old words from my palms onto the page, and publish.