SUPPOSEDLY

I suppose I should start from the beginning but what would be the point. Because the beginning is, in my more than humble opinion, a time I cannot go back to.

The beginning is full of my luminously lit dreams, of days in the sun and moments of pure unalderated joy.

The beginning is full of innocence and guileless thoughts. It’s littered with strings of endless laughter and peace so abounding. But that’s just the beginning.

Suppose I start Midway, when I had hope. When trials and tribulations illustrated the beginning of glory and endless tales of success.

The middle is my supposed time of growth. When my only faze was a supposed stumble upon some sort of significant suffering. But I was yet to begin to bear the burden of burying book-worthy banter and exchanging it for barely binding beliefs.

Suppose then I start furthest from the first cut, the first fumble with the knot, the first fire so enticing, the first furnace of fury, the first few friendly fiends; furthest from the first failed fallacy of finitude.

Yes, I suppose that makes for a better start. To describe the darkness dangerously dooming. The darkness that seems to seek to destroy. The darkness that consumes leaving no room for ceding space for some ray of sunshine. This darkness does not allow for the tiniest of time to test the taste of twilight or aurora.

See, it is supposedly safer to swim close to the shore. But I envy sharks and ships swimming and sailing so far and so serenely. I want to experience the same sway of sea waves. To be fluid and free. To be easy and elated. To go wherever whenever.

But I cannot. Because the battle is yet to start. Because I cannot find the supposed beginning. So I supposedly should stay silent and simple as I seek sanity in this sea that hosts the seething bazelgeuse that is my suffering and supposed despondency.