Beginnings

I am terrible at beginnings.

My books, plain and dull yet filled with wonder, start with thunder — the weather, a dream, a consultation to what is real or not, a further glance at dust and the wooden path in which my characters lay their bare feet upon. I’ve been told it is not enough.

To begin, to tell a story, to smile at action and take a step further? I’ve said before, I am terrible at beginnings.

With a focus on ordinary, rhyming in contrary, making sense — an illusion, clearly, I fail to make sense — , I type, I try. It’s a vision, a glance of mind, my mind. Then, I cry, silent within the tasteless ink of compliance. I am terrible at beginnings.

The sound of music floods my heart and my soul, as jubilant and bright as a symphony, a pop tune to adjust the tone of my surroundings, nostalgic. My surroundings. A tree, the grass, the shadows of my umbrella and the rain to pour down seemingly. I grin at the possibility, walking past the cobblestones of yesterday, but watched, I see. Everything: the colourless façade of reality, the twisted, hidden lips, questioning whatever is left of a vision of me.

Then, I miss possibility.
Then, I hide, denying any sign of congruency.
I am merely terrible at beginnings.

The skies tearing in grey, an assumption of wait. A perpetual wait I’m faded to stay. Join the queue, they say. As others pass me by, I ask what for. To knock on a door to find out I’m much too late? To knock on a door and face what I fail to conceal within lines of thought? To try, again.

Face to face, someone is tender. The one, in slumbers far gone, touches my cheek and wishes me farewell, for there’s none quite like me, quite like them. What should I have done, what should I do, to claim back what is now left? If they come to find me, to smile at me will it be enough to move me? I’m sorry, I am terrible at beginnings.

To a dear possible friend, standing at the edge of an unsaved number and a word unsent, my deepest condolences, please forgive me. I crouched down in fear in front of your grace, and shut me down with the premise to fade away, shy — this wit of mine could only take us apart. A possible future, I resign. So long, goodbye.

I resign.
For I am terrible at beginnings.

Yet, I am not ready to the end. I’m stuck in between, static, moving on quicksand, fighting my way up high, towards a light I might not find. Fine. It is fine. I am just terrible at beginnings.

My lines, murky and wistful, mirror my sights. So blind… Down here, within the shimmering of dust, within a shade of hope, amidst an elucidation over concrete and the flower that fights to strive in its cracks, the world opens up to me. Take my hand, offer me a chance, a dance, for, in the ordinary sides of life, I breathe, oblivious to the world, oblivious to action and to passion, aloof and distant a start a conversation, missing thy eyes as if that was an obligation.

I am terrible at beginnings.