It is time to nail the end, end of a beginning. A new 365
will be up again the next time weekend weaves its way out in words.
Every beginning has a mosey walk: jellylike, unsteady…yet
the joy in taking the walk resounds with cackle. That sums up joy. A beginning
baskets trepidation, anticipation and stands on watchful grounds but nevertheless
it leaps out cracking its shell.
To remain the coxswain from the alpha to omega becomes the mantra.
There might not be over our face new lights flickering right
at a time when the world declares it to be a new day, a new beginning.
Numerators change people do not, nor do the linking moments. A journey that
begins in warm lap toddles out meandering on two feet. Time plays the mediator
between change and events. And we wait. There are times when sorry feeling
overwhelms us at the slightest pop of saying goodbye and then again there are
times when we wait indefatigably for an end to happen. A monochrome voyage of
impermanence in the undulant layers of life stretches out.
The old escorts the
new to its throne. With dead foliages the coming becomes sacred: pristine,
puerile, worry jammed, worry free. A yesterday molts ushering today and
tomorrow thereafter.
Twenty thirteen thus winds up waiting for a fresh bloom in
the pot less than half filled and the rest well, not full; or with space.
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