Starting Points

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 06, 2016

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Submitted: July 06, 2016








A starting point. What is it, really? It’s a 360 degree circle that gives you 359 chances of being wrong. Not a very optimistic view, but one that I’ve become familiar with none the less. So will you. It’s a realization that time will make clear to each and everyone of us. Be thankful that that’s not part of the package they give you at the moment of your birth. If it was, there would be a lot more cynical babies laying around the maternity ward, refusing the nipple based on the grounds that it ‘only delays the inevitable’. 


Our birth is the ultimate starting point in our life. An arbitrary act that neither seeks nor needs our consent. People who you don’t know, throw together some genetic, abacus like, gooey stuff, and take the end result – you – and brow beat you until you can be abandoned. All you can do is hope that you are in that one degree that leads to gooey donators named Bill and Melinda.


I’ve always regretted not being able to remember my prenatal life, if only for the reason that I would like to nostalgically recall such an epic period of laziness. I imagine it like this: there is a greeter who welcomes your arrival. This greeter will spell out the conditions of your stay, expectations, carry on restrictions (somehow the airlines have found a way to get their message to us early). It might sound something like this...


“Okay, double helix, listen up. Welcome to the womb, and the first time you will be welcomed to the first day of the rest of your life. A few things to remember…there is only one exit. You’ll need to become familiar with gravity in order to find it. Second, party at your own risk…she will remember how you were in here – forever. Third, don’t go towards the light. It’s a trick. And please, no graffiti.


“Now, you’re probably raring to go, but we need you to sit tight. That’s right, take a long nap, imagine reading a book, learn to meditate. Soon, you’ll have a little something on each hand that will help you pass the time. And for you boys, there’s a surprise that you’re really going to like. 


“So, enjoy your stay, and the womb service. I’d say, ‘Come again!’, but I have some bad news for you. Full disclosure? You won’t be back.”


It’s funny how a starting point is nothing more than the beginning of the end. 


And so, like a blob in a lava lamp, we float in amniotic fluid. For most of us, we’re totally alone - hell know’s where the greeter has screwed off to - and in complete darkness. At first it seems spacious in there. Plenty of elbow room - that is, until we grow elbows. We’re fed and transported for the next nine months, or until the host catches on to our little scam and takes matters into her own hands. During this time, we are completely alone, which is ironic considering we will never be more attached to a human being again. However, there are those who must share this time and space with at least one other zygote. 


What must it be like in there for twins? Do they become territorial? Do they begin to develop a greater tolerance for others? Are they thinking revenge? I once knew twins who swore they could remember the conversations they had in there. One of them went like this:


Twin #1: Hey, get your ass outta my face.


Twin #2: Pretend you’re looking in the mirror.


Twin #1: I’ll mirror you.


I don’t know how much of this to believe because I wasn’t there, but I’m sure they didn’t know what a mirror was yet. Still, they corroborated each other’s story so it’s got to be true. 


Conjecture aside, our postpartum life is nothing but chaos from that first slap on the ass, to the last shovelful of dirt tossed on our grave. That’s just how it is. It’s been that way since the Big Bang, the original starting point. Time, matter and energy were all pushed outward with the force of a woman who’s been in labour for thirty-six hours. I can imagine the same amount of cussing, as well. For fourteen billion years, everything has been sent careening in all directions, relentless and chaotic. This explains our lives, our world, and why we lose so many socks in the dryer. 

© Copyright 2018 Norman K. All rights reserved.

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