What is a beginning?
We only have theories of our own.
Could it be that constant stinging
thought that lightens the burden on the soul?
The moment the pen touches paper?
The light sparks of adrenaline as you start to move closer?
The explosion in muscles as they extend an arm to beg?
What can it be?
Could it not just be the end?
I know the thought means something.
The meaning of the inspiration is sometimes forgotten.
Could it be that the tree,
persistent through centuries of struggle,
simply stood there to inspire once?
Could it be that the light,
that strove through space and broke through time,
was only meant to sow goosebumps on spines?
It is our mind that makes us mull over mightiness.
The beginning is constant.
A choice available at any given time.
It is the vertex of a ray,
perceivable at any resolution.
Choose a direction and tread it straight.
You can take it to infinite if you will.