"Begin at the beginning," the King said gravely, "and go on till you come to the end: then stop." - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland
Starting anything is a most daunting task, is it not? Writing page one. To be honest, I never ever start at the beginning. I write the middle and the end, and then I can go back to understand how it all started. Unfortunately, with an endeavor such as this, there is only a beginning. One cannot simply skip ahead.
So here I am, taking the first step. Putting it all out there. My work, my name, my life on the line. Out there for the world to love, hate, or ignore.
Rather than starting slow, I think I am going to dive in. If you're going to get wet, you might as well go swimming. It took me more than a moment to chose which piece of writing should go first. Which one would make for a nice start. In the end, I am choosing a bit randomly, and we can go from there. This is a poem about the strangeness of how timing works out. I hope you enjoy.
I wonder about timing…
the timing with which I arrive to different places.
the last train home at night.
the first plane home in the morning.
time zones and time changes
and daylight savings and night time savings.
free nights and weekends.
Use them anytime but now.
but also the timing with which people come
I tripped and fell and there you were.
I turned around and you were gone again.
I arrived into your life three weeks too late.
or maybe two weeks too early.
Is this shit timing or Perfect timing?
maybe I am supposed to be here for you for this. to hold your hand. not to say, “Everything is going to be okay…” but to say, “I will be here even if it isn’t.”
You were my nearest and dearest friend
for two weeks
or two years
or two decades.
Months past and we were together
and suddenly our time was up and you were gone.
Either in another country
or another town
or on to the next life after this.
Time ticks by maliciously.
Without our consent or control our time is up.