Beginnings are a total illusion.

What I call a beginning could also be called the end of the thing that happened before it. Drawing lines to mark beginning and ending is an effort to keep that bit of my life in place and make it easy for me to know where I am. Except I don’t know, not for sure. I find endings especially tricky. They are like shadowy things that smudge the very edge of my vision only to vanish when I turn to look directly at them.

So endings are illusions, too. Mirages shimmering with reward – if I can just go a little further.

These lines I draw add to the collection of devices I use to judge myself. Measured lengths of failure and success, with roped off sections of partial doings that linger with hopes of becoming finished things. Judgement pending. It is only now in this moment as my fingers type the words that I feel brilliant and awake! Those roped off events were long ago completed, V.I.P. me.

Perhaps that is why endings shimmer. They aren’t taunting me because once again I have failed to finish, but shifting in the endless flow of my life to the next place on the path.

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