What’s “fleeting?”

Generally speaking, everything, but, in this instance, moments.

For me a story has its beginning in its ending, single moments both. It’s not until the ending occurs, however, that a story reveals itself, says, Here I am and that’s where I began, pointing back, jerking a thumb over its shoulder, the beginning emerging distinct and obvious from all the nondescript moments around it, the path from that moment to this, the beginning to the end, illuminating itself, pieces falling into place.

The signifying thing, the “click,” the sign of a moment becoming a story, is when I’m stopped in my tracks in my head. This is a story, a moment says, And there’s its mate, back there, I see it now, The beginning. Distant or near. A million intervening moments or ten, long or short. A moment, fleeting, is where it all begins.

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Stories and the moments from which they spring.