What, then, is there left to say?
That somehow, amidst creating what seemed to be a path to the beginning that it will begin to implode? Or is it that to begin is not necessarily to understand that there is a step taken but perhaps to take that step. Or is it to say that in the midst of the chaos there was a bird perched daintily on a branch, its feathers glistening in the rays of the sun? That chaos, like all other forms of organized thinking, starts with an idea – and has no discernable end.
If not that then what?
Show me the words.
Give me the vowels that I might mix them with consonants and find a way to quantify this constant – change.
Seventeen shillings, palmed by a boy at a shop, particular care given to the one shilling coins. So easily lost. So easily forgotten. Dropped.
Like a collection of knowledge put to a broken beat and sold for 99 cents on the iTunes store. Like a downloaded album, listened to once and forgotten. Like a song on replay, lyrics held close as if somehow they held the key to the secret of immortality. As if somehow living forever is not only a thing that is aspired to but is also available at the shop for 33 shillings.
As if the fifty bob note in your pocket is enough to buy you freedom – forever.
Concepts that neither start nor end. Space and time unchained and set loose on a path that is supposed to lead to the beginning.
Circling each other.
Waiting for the right words that they might begin to move.
But what, then, is left to say?