It's hard to find it sometimes the beginning is something you really have to feel for and often times we end up "feeling" something that isn't really there at all and we run with it because we know if we stall someone will certainly call us on the fraud but life is really just about pretending anyway so you can pretend to know where it all began and I'll pretend to doubt you and we can all hang hopelessly pinned between the walls of philosophy and poetry and pretend to be doing both but really be achieving neither and we really aren't helpless at all but entangled safe and secure in a void of uncertainty that is really the only thing we know for sure and all we can think to do is scribble these words and pawn them off as art when really they're nothing more than thought processes and we can't seem to move our hands fast enough to catch everything and the details we miss always seem to be the ones that matter the most and it's always halfway through a train of thought when we're running too fast for poetry but much too slow for a novel that we realize maybe we should write this down but when you go to do it later you can't quite remember what the beginning felt like and all the parts that matter seem to have slipped through the cracks of infinity and it all seems so forced the way you're gripping the pencil so tightly and as hard as you push the words they don't get any prettier and they still don't make any sense and it starts to feel like maybe the cracks in infinity are the entirety of the idea and one can't help but fall through and realize that the things that are endless are really the things we'd like to end most like always and never two sides of the same coin both frustratingly absolute and infinite because they will always be but they will always be exactly what they are pinned between the philosophy and poetry feeling both secure and helpless always and for-never