Boudoir Secrets

Prologue

A plethora of ideas swarm in my head, wailing to be released. Sleep eludes me. Days blur into nights, melding to form one continuous insomniac existence. How does one articulate what one feels? So much easier to cry when in pain, dance if happy or scream to secrete anger. Surely this too will pass. Like a stage one grows out of.

Some days it is easier to bury oneself under one's blankets. Why is it always the same monotony? Can't depression be a little less predictable? Must it be so stereotypical? Just once it would be nice to wake to some other feeling coursing through my veins. Ahhh but then I would not be a tortured soul and thus could not produce such wonders of literary genius, now could I?

I stare at the paper infront of me and ponder. What hasn't anyone written yet? Which of my ideas are truly my own and not a form of plagiarism? Unintentionally filed in my labyrinth brain. Only to be ejaculated in ink form, deflowering the virgin sheet of paper that now sat before me no longer chaste. A defiled word whore. Belletristic harlot.