Mebagytes

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I had to start from somewhere. And the beginning seemed like a good place. Except the beginning is as illusory as the possibility of an ending. And so I decided to jump right into it.
Conversation is the exchange of useful information. Anything outside those frazzled, ever dancing lines is cosmic microwave background; little black dots dancing around little white dots dancing around littler black dots dancing around littler white dots.

And cosmic background noise is silence before the deafening roar of good conversation. Once I had the most astounding intellectual duel with the stars. They presented, I counter argued and the rest is fractal mystery. A tree once gave me a sound remonstration for flicking a half finished cigarette butt into the tresses of one of its sisters. And Gucci, the cat as old as time, a fuzzing, buzzing, ember feline, Gucci’s yawns stretched the mind to arcs that humped the back with old age and dips that sank the belly low and curled his brown fur coiled tail at the end. A question mark?

Listen more often to things than to beings, a wise old calendar said to me. It is never prudent to turn down one’s hat and tuck one’s ears in at the sound of the voice of time. It comes in filmy, snaking wisps, swirling, twirling; a masterful dancer. And if perchance, the Jumbo within still lives, then flying is but around the corner.

Words fail me and yet words are all I have. So here goes.

Where did I begin?

In the middle of the middle.

Where is the middle of the middle?

That’s where I began.

By Mariah Byomah

Mariah Byomah often writes poetry as well