a beginning

The only way to start is to write; I hesitate in this space...the artifice of light and emptiness: not even ink, no scratch across the page, yet a space. Perhaps more space, as neither space nor thing. Radio waves, at least, drift beyond--echoing forward what was and is behind: a call outward from center. In a strange way, this is both an act forward and an act inward...an audience of self, or merely observer of self attempting to be written.

Regardless, it strikes me that blogs are retrospective. There's a way in which these words will become the last read, this first post will be read at end; those "newer" posts read first, the reader making their way forward to the very back, in the way old food remains on the shelf as the newer boxes are sold and replaced by even newer boxes, the old ones pushed further and further back in the seat of darkness and dust.

Though whether beginning or end, one always has the sense of having started in the middle. Mmm...an epic turn for a blog-creature, a thing made of ash and bytes, and a bit of mind-slog for measure.