How do I start what has no beginning, middle, end? All the days to come, before today, they all unwind from the same spell - rivers, necessity, dreaming or love, loss.
I wake or sleep, and find I am only here, inside this unwinding journey. All the moments afloat on a lake of desire, a sea of conflicting questions, and still, I have not begun.
The place I am is only important to the degree that it claims me, otherwise, I go on, horizons swallow all these moments, a necklace encircling the sweet throat of the world.
Somewhere, perhaps along the middle passage, I get a small glimpse of an ending I cannot construct, unfathomable, and therefor, not my own. The beginning promised an end, but lent it no shape.
The middle is re-assessment, new guesses, grass along the banks of the
somnolent river. Insects thrive along those banks, on a journey separate
from my own. Their own mystery, however, is no less, nor more, than this
small journey of my own.
Take discreet slicesof time lived only through for other than what is actualBlend forcefully with disjointedwanderings of the mind through past events of little consequenceAdd a pinch or pound
Go back to the fork in the road
This is an ever-evolving journey. Spiral back
All written content
Copyright 1999 - 2011, PathWay Publications
All Rights Reserved