My eyes raked over the last sentence and then I turned the page. I didn’t realize, even though the subject matter was the last few leaves lying on the ground, that the chapter was ending and the next pages laying open in front of me were at the ready. They marched forward suddenly in an immediate pace: brisk and purposeful. It was a new chapter, in purpose by the author, but that’s not the way it seemed to a reader. Just like that, an answer springing from unknown to unquestionable fact, the single story of a character was an anthology. Stories of the same name and face chronicled like volumes arranged neatly on a shelf, their covers and backs pressed against one another so close you would think they longed to meld together. Still, no matter how desperately the space between was scooped in to buckets and tossed out, it was never little enough to press them deeper in to each other than being pressed against one another. The recounting of their individual living never wove together as one would always sleep in to dark that would never know the morning, while the other woke with mystery of weeks and months in length putting them ahead of where they were.
This new beginning, groping in to the dark for a doorknob to a middle, jars me but preserves the inherent values readily for the new piece taking shape in the diligent, reading eyes. This is the next, the coming, and the unclear follow-up to the tale just ended. Don’t judge how the words fit like pieces of chalk trying to mimic those of a puzzle, and equally remain unmoved if they skate like angels on the crisp ice, because these are languages used to speak words of a story that’s importantly told and needs to be listened to in equal measure. There’s a conclusion somewhere at the end of these flipping hills and waves of words in print, a conclusion that’ll requires an author to reverse the meticulous folds of a bundled note and smooth it flat, then put it in the pile of others just like it. The stack builds and as it does so it carries on, in turn, the long walk to the end through door-frame after door-frame of exits and endings like folding hands in rounds of poker.
The seeds are scattered and the dandelion forgotten as a whole. The last of them that remain must have a purpose in mine, or I in its. Like most questions of that nature we’re not sure what we’re asking or trying to know. The introduction looks less like tiny dots and more of the image taking shape, and thus we go again through the gallery in search of meaning.