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the art of putting a puzzle together in the dark

Short story By: Josephine Ann

"just bend the pieces till they fit
like they were made for it
but they weren't meant for this
no, they weren't meant for this."

dashboard confessional

Submitted:Sep 29, 2007    Reads: 80    Comments: 1    Likes: 1   

here is the thing- it never really makes sense. it never ends up being the perfect pieces to a puzzle; it never fits neatly together like you would all like. there is nothing perfect or uncomplicated about life, and if there is something beautiful in the mess then we have gotten what was intended out of what we've been given.

i am never sure about how it works. i am only guessing, i am only shooting in the dark and groping along long corrdiors filled with sharp edges and inclines. there is no rhyme or reason to the way things go, no matrix with simple equations and nonterminating decimals and absolute truths about life.

there is only one absolute truth, and it is that God is good. i know nothing else that has never been proven false at least once, even if by the oddest and most uncommon circumstances. everything outside of this one fact is only guesswork, because this knowledge leads us to nothing else. it is independant of the world, and maybe that is what makes it true. maybe everything within the world that we are farmiliar with is only the beginning, only the mirage for something far greater and far more intense than we know. maybe wherever this place is, all the feelings that exist are concentrated. where there is happiness there is more joy that our bodies can contain; where there is sadness it feels like the world is going to swallow us whole; when there is passion it is like there is an explosion we could never anticipate nor contain.

or maybe i'm wrong.

it's remarkable, how my feelings change about this. it is remarkable how unstable i am; i don't mean for this to sound crazy. i am always changing my mind, i am always rethinking and regretting and revealing to whomever might be close. it is all at once my best and worst trait; it means that i hurt as often as i heal. it means that all of these things i don't know are only more magnified in the way i speak, the way i think, the way i write.

there are others that could do it so much better. i am only supplemental, and if i am inspired it's because the music is pounding in my ears and i think my veins are on fire and if i stop now i will die. if i don't say what is on my heart it will fill me until i am so full, too full, overflowing and unstoppable and a raging torrent and all of the things i'm scared of letting go will pour out of me. it is the fear of absolute vulnerability that keeps me from saying all the things i could, all the things that maybe i should have said long ago. don't you see? the words never die in me. if i don't say something i know i should have, it stays with me forever, so i have a million "i love you"s and "i'm sorry"s stuck in my mind forever.

i love you

i am sorry

and maybe those two sentences are mutually inclusive, because if i love you it probably means your life just got a lot more complicated and a lot deeper than you were ready for. because i don't know who can handle the person that i am; i don't know who can follow my train of thought and who can be unafraid of how intense i sometimes am, who can look in my eyes and see something spectacular that no one has ever spotted before. i am deathly, utterly afraid that there is nothing remarkable about me. you could not understand how paralyzing this feeling is to me, how i think about this at night and how i bite my nails and how i pray more fervantly for love than for anything else.

i love you

i am sorry

and in the end, it makes no more sense than it did before, but i am still alive.


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