(found by the moss gathered by the rolling stone)
How do you stop?
Now that it has started, now that I have started and you have started and we have started, how can it be stopped?
Yet it is expected to.
From the start, perhaps, might we have been doomed to need to stop what was so hard, so gloriously hard, to even start? I mean to say that, once Pandora’s Box has been opened and the so-many feelings let loose into the world, what is the point of trying to replace the lid? And why? And how?
And those moments that come, where it feels as though fate has squeezed your hand – a kind indication that, yes, you may take charge of the path your life will take – what to make of them? What to do with them?
I mean to say that, when – for once – you are able to feel the rough leather of Destiny’s reins in your grip, where are you supposed to lead the Chariot of Life? Where are you supposed to drive the horses? To the danger? Do you dare? To the safety? Disturb the universe?
I think I can. I mean to say that I think I may be able to continue. To not stop, I mean to say.
But that may not be the brunt of the challenge. Continuing, I mean to say. I mean to say that the feeling remains, the disaster still looms, the heart beats on.
And how can I say what I mean? And how can you mean to understand what I say?
And how can it be stopped? Why is it desired to be stopped?
That’s more like the question. I mean to say why is it desired to be stopped?