I am Ouroboros – my end is in my beginning and my beginning begets my end. The page’s linear structure cannot reflect the intertwinedness of thought and experience, scoured into the body, carded in the mind, spun onto the page; or how meaning struggles to be voiced, pulsing against unseen, unyielding bars – the mind’s cage alert for any transgressions, any shows of self – searching for a space to shimmer through. To roll and flow and glow on the page, to share – not too much, just enough, don’t let them see the real you; to reach out for what: Acknowledgement? Approval? Achievement? Acceptance?
But the reaching is circular not linear; in the end – and in the beginning – all that can be known is the self. The lines that stretch down the page finish; the eyes that scan them move on. And I, Ouroboros, suck on my tail, flex my unshed scales for the transmigration to come, and begin again.
Considering the prompt, ‘ouroboros’ flashed into my mind and words flowed from graphite in a fever-dream of inspiration. The wool-making metaphor also arose naturally – I just fact-checked when editing. A strange but satisfying departure from my usual style.
Debra Williams is a published writer (e.g. Free Flash Fiction) who also enjoys telling her work in a storytelling group. She blogs about Merseyside’s natural world.