Writing > A Z

I was born at the beginning, the beginning of June, exactly as many years ago as I can understand. At some shadowy point in the future, I will die at which time I may understand that too. The time between these points, between the beginning and the ending, has, so far, been divided predictably into days, into seasons, and into years, that pass even as they renew and repeat. I assume that the moments continuing from this moment will do the same. Within these rhythms and in response to them, I have oscillated between sleeping and waking, punctuating the time with breathing, eating, and excreting. I know that I am growing older with each passing day, the biology of my body building up and now breaking down. This is living and it seems simple enough. And yet, within this rudimentary, predictable framework is everything. Everything I have or will conceive has a spot within this structure. All the possibility and promise of the future and all of the accumulated experience and wisdom of the past operate within these limits and are intelligible only within them.
There is something annoying and exhilarating about this paradoxically limited limitlessness. And, something equally humbling and exciting in the promise that within this bounded infinity every moment will be one of becoming.