starts always are hard
in every genre
every issue
every humanistic dealing.

starts always get me,
how do I capture the essence
of what I wanted to express
without it leaving me cold
because

because….

in the end

it all faded
because

because….

I couldn’t start the damn thing.



This time.

My head was filled with sound. Not music. Music is so rhythmic, melodic, sweet to hear. But sound. Sound. Sound can express the confines of a space so small you could never squeeze your little finger into, and it encompasses you in it before expelling you into a void of which there is no end, the infinity of space. How could I possibly express this wonderment through words, language, text. This constructed convention we employ over land, seas, air, across this planet we destroy? And I sound now like an idealist. In my head I hear the words certain people would say about my phrasing. My language is inadequate, somewhat cheese-ridden at times. And at others it is inconsiderate, fashioned without eloquent mannerisms and flounces. Or perhaps too many.

If you could write me one thing that made you sit up and think today,
what the devil would it be?

This is our duration, we can not go back along it, only forwards. In duration there is less substraction than addition. It is indivisible, heterogeneous, part of our memory, our present, and the abstraction of our future.

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