Transcendence/Becoming

It could be on account of my short attention span, a quality I can always blame on being reared by television. Perhaps, there is perpetual dissatisfaction. Other reasons could readily be invoked.

I remain: it has always been about the in-between. The starting point could be as innocent as the tail-end of a sneeze. The end point? As trite as the end of a marriage – neither you nor the other can no longer remember when it started to unravel.

The in-between has always had the magic of the flash of light. I constantly wonder about the distinction of that flash. For me, it is an opening, and yet, it is that kind of opening that is quickly snapped shut, just when you are about to gain the opportunity to pry it open. No, it was not meant to tease the intrepid outsider. One can say that it has the characteristic of a wink.

It is that whoosh before the expelling. It is the pregnant ball of yarn that fell off the knitting basket. Not even the slumbering cat saw it coming. It was and is always the force greater than the origin and the aftermath.