Twist

by Colum McCann

Who can say where anything truly begins? The cloud, the raindrop, the original speck of dust around which water collects? We can only ever locate the middle when we get to the end. And then, at the absolute end, what’s the point in finding the middle, or even the beginning?

So much of who we are is who we cannot be. We flatter ourselves when we think we can become something entirely new.

I had begun to realize that nothing, once begun, ever properly finishes.