we don't consciously believe it i think.
but since the beginning i guess
we imagine life as a jigsaw.
pieces falling in their places
in time. getting aligned with each other.
a picture. beautiful. unveiling itself.
slowly. something that was always there.
hidden. waiting to be discovered. different for everyone. maybe.
complete.
little or no vestiges of disconnected ideas, people, times.
but is it. that simple?
isn't it more a pile
of those disconnected puzzle pieces.
randomly chosen.
trying to create a thousand incomplete pictures. hardly doing so.
fragments of dreams, memories, fears.
just lying in a stockpile waiting
to be chosen and worked upon.
just that.
without an end in sight.
and why then
shouldn't the stockpile be beautiful, for just being there ?
