Sirop de Vanille

I am unable to play with ‘em words… They used to listen to me, dance to my tunes? And now I struggle, and use ‘em ellipses even more than usual. Does that make a difference to me…? To you? Or to them? Ellipses… Three evenly spaced periods… It doesn’t even make sense. Full stops. One after the other. It’s as if someone changed their mind about ending the sentence… but then… isn’t that, in some weird effed up way, “kinda cool”? It is as if you went for a walk one fine morning (eeyuch) and instead of stopping at a particular point to turn around and come back home, you kept on walking. It always takes that first (out of line) step doesn’t it… and then… it’s easy. Just like now, I am typing away, you are reading, probably not caring. Your eyes lazily roam the page, contemplating clicking another link to another page or another post or another world and there… you did it. You clicked. You roll your eyes because the page is still stuck on my attempts at writing. Writing. It’s ridiculous how much I guard this term, this phrase, this way of being. I write. I want to write. I am a writer (died in school, but still). Writing for redemption. Writing for me. Etc… I have managed to convince myself of my ability to write, I am guessing, at a very subconscious level. It is not the Id, not the Super Ego, not anything. It’s a manifestation of a fact so close to my frail pre-teen existence that now, at the age of twenty four, without any proof of it, I manage to hold on to it. Tightly. Steadfastly. Believing. Hoping. Scribbling. But never really doing anything about it. Because of course I don’t have time. I don’t have time to take up something seriously, but I can watch five movies on a free day, and cook an elaborate meal for myself and make a ridiculously yummy cocktail (which I can replicate!) and clean the damn loo because I am a woman obsessed. I cannot take it seriously… I am sure I can… I cannot pursue it. Something so close to me, that I am terrified of failing at it. Something so important to me that my mother still narrates stories to me to put to paper one day. Something so ridiculously elusive that despite all the preparations I refuse to complete any of it. All I do is stock my house with books to read, stationery to write with, notepads to write in. Incomplete stories. Ellipses completing them? Carrying them forward in a parallel universe. Somewhere they will be retold. Completed. I write. From poetry that was never poignant to prose which became lyrical (to my ears). I write. How? Syntax needs attention. I don’t really care. It is quite evident. Vocabulary isn’t that great. Really? You understand me right? You hear me? Do they talk to you? Does it stifle you with syllables? What does it do to you? What happens when I play with ‘em words. I write. And I am unable to finish what I started. Now what do I do with a book full of crazies?