Beginnings, by definition, are the points of origin,
which means you could pinpoint the origin of every moment
in the maps of your memories with a little flag.
The best part about cartography is how seemingly small it makes everything look like,
every pinpoint is a city,
every moment an abandoned town,
and suddenly, you are not the little kid
standing in the middle of your class to mark your origin,
but the atlas, the globe, the world map.
Languages, I feel, work the same way.
We create boundaries between two languages that cannot talk to each other,
join them through channels of translation,
stationing pirates to steal some of the meaning along the way.
Every beginning is a road map, every language a metaphor for journey,
there are too many twists and turns and curved lips involved,
there is no room for paper towns in a map as cluttered as ours.
I have a theory,
if you look closely, you will always far too many words for beginnings,
far too many excuses, far too many reasons to begin again,
and not nearly enough for an end.
Our procrastination is the Bermuda Triangle on every treasure map,
we do not believe in endings,
our conviction to reach the end can be measured in fistfuls of sand,
some beginnings are bound to fly away to better weather conditions,
leaving us with only a handful of stories about the pot of golden opportunities waiting at the end,
some endings are disguised beginnings anyway.