It's the hardest part of the marathon. I'm past the mid-point, but do not see the finish line.
This morning, I am in the center of chaos. A chaos of my making. A pre-requisite of the new order. It's not a choice. The path is often messy. Chaos does not scare me. Nor order. I pull both sets of strings.
Clothes are out of drawers, closets. Surfaces are covered with items to be sorted. To be distributed. A life unraveling. Threads of a story, unwoven, extracted, to be threaded into other stories, lives. Some known, some unknown.
There is no end. There is no beginning. Except there are. Bookends.
And while all this ending/beginning is occurring in this space, all around me is the world. Cars driving across the bridge. A ship being built. The river keeps flowing. Eating. Sleeping. Breathing.
It's more chopping wood, carrying water.
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