Headwaters

Always, the thing must start. I wish I could pretend the screed I am about to unroll was merely continuing an already continuous narrative, as though my story had always been in motion, my experiences always moving real action forward, my body always furiously shoving the future endlessly into the past. But no, I must make a beginning.
One time I drove past the headwaters of the Arkansas River, where it trickles through stones in a shatteringly uninteresting section of Colorado, and since then I am sure that everything starts somewhere. By the time that river flows through Little Rock, my town, it's wide and powerful enough that local children who stand beside it trying to skip rocks or catch a fish ought to imagine it's big forever. They ought of dream of following all that bigness out into the wider world where big, big things happen. Something is wrong with them if they look at all that water and see the dribbles of melting snow where its progressive magnitude originates.
Even this BS I am typing, it began, once upon a time, probably within the stuffy pages of a 19th-century novel whose arch tone impressed my young nothingness, struggling against the nothing I owned inside in the place where other people kept their self-profiles.
So this is it, the start of my temporary blog. I hereby begin it.