Everything goes away, and we fuss about it. How long will this be here before it goes? What comes next?
Mornings and evenings. Beginnings and endings. They are what grab our attention, what we tend to remember, what we want to fill or extend. Middles are a little more complex, a lot less tidy. Everything changes in the space between arrivals and departures. What fills the gaps between the two are the stories we live and tell–about how we move from starts to ends, what we find between, forces with and against us and within us, where we work the angles.
A spattering of disparate moments, dots on this white page, scattered here and there, are the many middles of this life. Flashes, afterimages floating across the eye. One after the other, they make little sense. They bounce. Collapse causality, segue to coincidence, ride the serendipity of chance.
It’s in this flux of scenes that fade in and out that I consider the plausibility of my life not being quite as chaotic or random as I had imagined, not senseless or obscure. Maybe these dots don’t arrange themselves into a level line; maybe I should stop trying to force their geometry. All my ends and beginnings are middles, and it’s okay. Our collections of middles make living round.
Photo: Bow/Edison, Wash. iPhone 3Gs in 2011
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