I’m only good at beginnings.
At a time when words are born and cut loose from the cord; when the literary womb shivers and it vibrates with the ferocity of a howling woman scorned.
It is the only time that I am what I am supposed to be. And I cry at the sight of myself—a word ethereal that I speak with such dominating command.
I find this state of infancy fascinating. As the human brain struggles to comprehend; as it tries to find meaning in a calculated flurry of vowels and of resonance, it conjures a vision that which no one else can see. No one else but the mind that understands the depth of pain and labour required to contain the abstract into manufactured form that is me.
And he who appreciates the source contemplates with the question of why, what and how and belabours himself entranced by my abrupt growth. My pubescence fills his mind with association and I begin to take form; imperceptibly changing as I approach adulthood and the inevitability of death. I could not even utter an expression of resistance as he races through countless associations trying to find meaning to it all.
Until he finds distilled in the final letters the truest intent not of the source but of myself as I find expression in the mind of a reader. And I present myself naked in death as I was when I was born. I do not resist. I could not and I would not for the greatest honor is to live in the minds of others as I die in the final lines of this literary form we call life.
