Of stories. Untold. Unborn.

It happens sometimes that a germ of an idea takes hold. It sits and germinates, couching itself in beautiful words. It is layered with vivid imagery, interesting hooks and just the right amount of angst to keep it bound. It sits, germinating. It takes shape in words strung together, pieced while at the stove, in the shower, at the bus stop. The sentences flow, pause and meander through the alleyways of your head.

Sometimes it happens that you sit down to write and all you can come up with are fragments of brilliance. You claw through the recesses of your brain grasping at the disappearing wisps of thoughts coming up with nothing. You try valiantly and pour what is left on the blank screen.

In your mind is a cocoon ready to break open to a beautiful butterfly. On paper are shards of the cocoon, each piece glinting with promise but shattered, the butterfly never born.