What is it in being incomplete that is considered a pity?
To be on your own, to be all alone, in a bustling city?
Do not confuse being incomplete to being lonely,
Lonely might be incomplete, but incomplete never lonely.
How can you be alone, lying in all of your pieces?
Just one or two missing, but yet all of it right there.
There is a certain peace, a certain sanctity,
To knowing yourself well enough, to believe in an infinity.
Because you’re never going to be complete,
Even if you travel a 1000 miles, a 1000 places.
Meet a million people, experience even more changes,
There are still going to be those few inevitable blank spaces.
Blank spaces are not always ugly or sad,
Like a sky full of stars with no one beside,
A simple sweet melody with no voice or rhyme,
Like clear white paper with no words by which to abide.
There is a beauty in incomplete things,
Like a forgetful old man’s random musings,
A single white rose, sitting alone on the windowsill,
A placid lake, with nothing in it or on, water just still.
If we can relish the wonder of such inanimate things,
Why question the incompleteness of a human being?
Revel in people, revel in their being, revel in the life that they choose to lead,
Because everyone has a story, a story being written, a story to believe.
JustTellingYouThings 