The end, the middle, the nothing.
To begin at the beginning makes no sense, not when you have the possibility of starting anywhere. To recount something from the beginning is flawed and fallible… a true beginning is a true forgetting, an instant without reference, the signification of the nonsense of attempting to define chronology’s antithesis with chronology. It is the moment (which is not a moment) in which a word forms and with the forming of that word, non-word ceases to exist, even as negative.
She began at the beginning.
The wiser man starts with the premise and shapes time around it; they do not stretch out the blueprint of events, with its skeletal rigidity, and then tighten the skin of argument around its frame.
But, she began at the beginning.
In telling the story, she undermined the argument, an argument that held firm despite my protestations. If you are to prove through memory and juncture then you must take time and recount every detail and tell every aspect, and this will then be all stories, but still the story will not be told.
There are still writers.
Once you have spoken of every second and minute, you will then have to speak of every second and every minute for every second you, and third you, and forever you because in telling the story, you change the story and you change yourself invisibly, necessarily and irreversibly.
This must then happen for every person.
And so we receive a million stories laid upon a million stories and eventually you will be unable to see the stories for all the stories, or speak for all the spoken, so it is better to say what you wanted to say, and not lower us into the politics of tale. But you were unable to resist and you told the story, and in my head and your head the other stories flooded in upon themselves like echoes, slightly different but indistinguishable.
Which is shame, because in the end you were probably right, you just lost me somewhere near the middle, and now at the beginning I make no sense.