Is it?

Are we almost finished? Is it almost done? The day, the week, the project; are we there yet is here. Comfort us with a story, please. Then we will know where we are, rising & falling action, epilogue, introduction. I can tell it differently, but would not dare. Complete is the goal, but why do we want to get there? The end is no better than the beginning, and we can get lost in the middle. That’s where I’d like to stay. In the woods between the edges, among the animals. Not starting over, not picking up the pieces. I’ll become a wanderer, a flâneur of the forest. Rollicking strolls in the shade, replacing the rising and the setting. It will always be dusk, as far back as we can remember; aren’t you coming with me? I forget more easily, but you can try to see off the need for memory as well. Leave it at the end of the trail, we can climb a tree and sleep here. Our life will be a poem with arbitrarily chosen punctuation, though we will be deliberate in using no periods. All our clauses will be connected and none of our paragraphs will end. Perhaps we will rhyme, perhaps not. Anything to help the walking go down. Is it the best way to live? We don’t ask such questions anymore.