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 slices

of time lived only through for other than what is actual

Blend forcefully with disjointed

wanderings of the mind through past events of little consequence

Add a pinch or pound 

of grievious misgivings over the various nonsense assigned excessive importance

Bake long and slow

at high temperature in the heat of denial and forfeit the small spirit left inside

Now tell me, what does that taste like to you?