The thing about beginnings is
they’re always a big question mark.
They’re an open door that leads… where?
Another room?  Outside?  Nowhere at all?

Maybe this door is actually a window,
not truly meant for you to pass through,
but good to look at for a while
and consider whether to go there.

Perhaps at times you don’t get to
see the door at all, but once you are
passing through it you notice, “Oh,
this feels like a doorway,” and
blindly run your hands along the panels
of the threshold.

And surely, now and again, you will awaken
and find you’ve run through many doors
(without having noticed
or made a conscious choice),
chased by the predators you carry within.

You will turn and look back, panting
like a small dog, down the long hallway and
through all the rooms you’ve passed into and out of,
as you teeter on the eternal precipice of the present,
anchorless, and always
just about to fall into
the rest of your story.