The hunt

I was sitting at my desk, my hands dejectedly resting on a keyboard. My fingers itched to dance over the keys of my laptop. If only my brain would give them something to write.
     An hour. I’ve spent an hour sitting here and still not a single thread of an idea has whispered a tune in my ear. Knowing me, I’ll most likely still be sitting here three hours from now. But it’s with a hope intent on snaring a fleeting idea for my assignment in those hours.
     Another hour has gone by. My mind is empty, blank as the mocking document before me. If I stay here any longer my fingers are going to mold to the surface of the laptop. But I sit nonetheless.
     Another two hours. I am beginning to think I’ve set the record for staring the longest at a blank document when a hint of inspiration begins to scuttle through the webs in my mind. I am careful not to give any sign that I have become aware of its presents.
     Slowly it makes its way from path to path in the vast net of my mind. I begin to cautiously set a trail of traps to snare the innocent idea.
     My fingers are tense over the keys, almost quivering with anticipation. This is what I love. This is why I write. That deep gut feeling, a gleeful volition to see those captured thoughts become stains of black ink on stark white paper. To hunt within the mind, searching for threads of hidden imaginings and the ultimate pray, creative inspiration.
The idea has made it to the first trap. Anticipation makes bumps cover my skin.
It trips the snare but is too quick to be caught. It now knows it has be sensed, it flees. Avoiding every snare I lay, daftly slipping past my nets. I throw up walls forcing it to take every path it tries to avoid.
I tighten my web, cutting off ever escape it attempts to flee through. We struggle in the arena of my mind, both fighting for supremacy. The fight lasts for almost five minutes before I finally win. The though becomes submissive with my victory.
Once I have a chance to really study the thought, I realize it is a pearl of inspiration. With a little cultivation it will be a masterpiece, beautiful and vibrant.
My fingers take off, pounding the keys with a force driven by the rushing adrenaline still pumping through my vanes from the hunt. I stain the white landscape with black letters, filling the page with my victim’s story.
After a time my pulse slows, but this can not steal the burning joy in my heart as the page before me is filled with the inspiration of my successful hunt. A smile is stretching my lips as high as they will go. My fingers are tingling with the outflow of the growing idea.
A page becomes two and then three. Soon I loose count and between sleeping, eating and work that pearl of an idea begins to bloom into a vivacious tale. In the span of a year it shapes into a story filled with the contrast of love, war, pain, joy, grief, hope, loss, victory, and resolution.  
As I write the last sentence on the last page, I feel a sense of completion. That burning joy I had first felt fades away, replaced by contentment. I close the book's cover and place this story on the shelf with all the others I have written over the years. Past ideas captured and nurtured into lush tails of every kind. I smile at them, remembering each. Finally I return to my desk and sit in front of my laptop.  
Now. I have only to wait for the next hunt to begin