Words are Yummy

What teenagers are to their fluffy pink diaries is what I’ve become to the people who mean the most to me—selfish. In the awful sense that I’ve forgotten that they’re not just blank pages willing to absorb every thought, every pain, every word I throw at them. In an even more awful sense that I’ve lost track of their own lives, which are different from that which I’m living in. And in an extremely unforgivable sense that I’ve become so used to them becoming so helpful that I tend to, sadly enough, abuse my right. Then one day I woke up having no one.

What was I thinking, I asked myself upon seeing the pile of books on my bedside table. I was trying to be one of those masters of words—authors really, as others prefer to call them. I don’t know why, year after year, I get this sudden notion that I could write a book. I know I’m not patient enough to do so. It must’ve been the Mitch Albom book lying on my roommate’s pillow. Although I’m betting it’s the effect of the anti-allergy pills I took last night. Odd reasons, I know. But not as odd as me dreaming I could write an entire book, I tell you.

Finally, I sat up. Yes, I admit albeit embarrassingly so, that I’ve created quite a few introductions to what I’d thought would be my first and/or my only masterpiece. Always the introduction, though. Never the story, never the plot, never the characters.

I smiled and brushed my thoughts aside. For now, I’m happy to whip a few words and leave the beautiful word-stacking  and binding for them geniuses.