The End of the Beginning

So I take it back. The beginning is not the most delicate time. Oh, it's up there, alright, but the incipient qualities of it, the novelty if you will, keeps reminding you that extra grace is required, special latitude given, that the deep breaths which allow apparent transgression to pass over you and through you must continue.

The End of the Beginning, on the other hand, has no directionality. There aren't even any walls you can use to prop yourself up or guide yourself along with. In these ways, the End of the Beginning too closely resembles the Beginning of the End. You're not entirely sure which it is. You begin to believe that it could just go either way. You suppress a panic. Your hopes aren't aligned with your aim and you can't herd your wishes into a coherent constellation of thought. You have too much time on your hands to think about the one that all the feelings are about, and consumed by the absence while addicted to the presence.

Trust is called for, it's the quality of trust that sets the stage for the future, for the time when it all hits its own stride, is able to renew its own momentum. Certain tints of trust breed neediness, just as certain textures of trust put a metaphorical roof over your head. And certain tones of trust play love and others play dirge.

So what shape-color-feel will it be when it gets its legs? Or will it end up still-born?