Poor Excuse for Prose

I’m remaking myself. I sift the flour and cream sugar into butter and learn a new stitch and become a new person. I stand in my small kitchen and listen to my neighbours stomp past. I draw imaginary Venn diagrams concerning elements that don’t match and pretend I want to finish my degree.

It doesn’t work. I’m still me.

So I put the spoon down. I remove the tray from the oven and stack the dirty utensils in the sink with every intention of not doing them. I buy a new ball of wool and learn a new stitch but never advance to anything more complicated than a blanket.

I’m still me when I eventually give up and start a new project.