Holding The Light

I first wrote this a few months ago, yet since then have revised it a lot, so that now it's quite different, but I think in a good way, from  how it was in its original state when I first put pen to paper...or fingers to keyboard, as the case may be. It's essentially about 'discernment,' which when used in the context in which I mean it, means hearing God's voice, knowing His presence, and essentially just knowing which way He wants me to go. If it doesn't completely make sense, I apologize...I love writing with metaphors, but am definitely a novice (if that) at writing in general,  so please forgive in advance any confusion that may ensue...

The tree trunks felt damp, their bark absorbing the droplets of water that cascaded from the above, having collected on the leaves during the last rain storm. He strained his eyes, struggling to feel his way through the heavily wooded forest as it was late dusk and the light was very dim, moving slowly as he continued, for fear of becoming even more disoriented. Once in a while he caught a quick glimpse of brightness from somewhere around him, a vision of light that was there and gone with such speed that he questioned the honesty of his own eyes. On occasion the moon was visible through the rare patches of empty space in the tall roof of greenery above him as it came out of the clouds, but he neglected to notice its presence as he continued searching for light everywhere except where it resided, so roots and stems wrapped themselves round his feet and pulled him to the forest floor while clouds hid away the moon once more. Lying in the mud, his head resting atop thick moss, he attempted to locate any kind of illumination, but as he rose and placed his feet back onto the ground he remained hopelessly unaware that all about the spruces and pines, fireflies were dancing. Every now and then the corner of his eye would catch a faint glow, but so consumed had he been with his search, that by the time he realized what his eyes had briefly beheld, it was swallowed up by darkness. All light seemed inconstant, but he knew it was not so; it was always there, but not always visible to him. It was his eyes that were fickle, rarely looking in the right places for light; his sight that never remained fixed upon following the light when found. He wished he could focus his eyes upon it and let it show him the way out, or if not, that he could capture the light and hold it in his hands, letting it cast its shine ever before him to make his surroundings clearly visible and lead his way ahead, constantly drawing him closer to freedom.