the beginning

Every time I think of the beginning, I note its loneliness, fragility and foreignness. I can never pass past the beginning, but find myself re-territorializing it in my imagination; though it is muddy, yet soft, below my feet. It is mine, but never mine to mould or emancipate; it merely reminds me of my beginning and predicts my ending. I walk with tension, hesitation and a false sense of passing.