I’m on the eleventh draft and the flies keep buzzing, even as I inadvertently switch letters in half the words I write. You never know when the beginning will come. Or maybe you do. I sure as hell don’t, and at the moment, that seems to be enough.

It’s tough to focus sometimes, what with all the buzzing and switching. My train derails in a fraction of a second.

That would be my proverbial train, the one of thought. I’ve always found that to be an odd metaphor, since my thoughts are rarely linear or on-track to anywhere, making them a little tough to derail. Of course, that’s a bullshit line, as are most “I’ve always” statements. They’re designed to sound good in the moment. To be clever.

Clever.

Stare at it long enough, the word falls apart. Its shape, the relationship of letters to each other, to other words like it, none of it fits.

Clever.

To be sure, the sound of it, the tone, fits nicely with the meaning, but its structure seems unsound to the eye. The eye being mine. Because it conjures up words like cleave, or never, even revel in a flash of dyslexia. None of which are cunning, bright, or intelligent by nature.

But, I digress.

At least I think I do. It’s tough to know for sure sometimes, what with the final destination a bit hazy from the start, but that sure felt like a digression.

There was that last reference to dyslexia, which, if you go back to the part where I was switching letters, seems to come full circle, but I’m of the opinion that was mostly coincidence.

Weird.

Back to the point, which had to do with beginning, which in itself is strange since I’m pretty sure this is the end. This afternoon my dog chased his tail and I laughed at him. Now he’s on the couch, and I’m half-expecting him to lift his head and say, “Who’s laughing now, motherfucker?”