Pictorial: Leaves, Bricks & Cobblestones
All of life is a puzzle— The roots that feed the trees to fit the leaves on winding branches; The multitude of bricks so similar yet uniquely different, stacks a castle in thin air; The cobblestones beneath your feet fixes a path out of nowhere, promising only to lead you somewhere, anywhere— The world and I.
Yellowing for years to come, occasionally dusted and admired from afar. No, no hands. No touching. No changes to be made. There is only one way to complete this puzzle, only one path I can take, and when it’s done, it’ll be the perfect picture of a life that I have made. Then I’ll hang it on a wall, without meaning or purpose, but still I’ll take pride, because it is something that I made.
For far too long, unconsciously, that was how I have lived my life. For single purposes, and lists to adhere to, and places I must be, things I must do, words I must say, and endless endless streams of goals to achieve. It is, of course then, with no surprise, that I admit that satisfaction was not a feeling I could relate to. Ever the over-achiever, failure was never far from my sight, when really, there was nothing for me to fail at. Because in not living a life I could love, I have never really succeeded to begin with.
My place in this world begins and ends with a word that, unfortunately, still dominates my life: Money.
Money makes the world go round. There is nothing money can’t solve. Money buys happiness.
Misconception, misconception, downright delusional.
Surely, life has not been just that for you? You must think. And of course it wasn’t. Young, free-spirited children have no care for money. I cared about that blanket fort I built with my sister. I cared about my scraped knee and bleeding fingers. I cared about imagining places that don’t exist. And in those places I was anyone I wanted to be, doing only things that I loved. And my place in this world, was the bedroom that yesterday, was a castle; today, is a volcano; tomorrow, might be the moon.
But the blanket forts turned to tables and computers, scraped knees paled in comparison to sleepless nights, and the bedroom— has but one practical use anymore.
These were the pieces to my puzzle for a “prefect” life.
The world is as static as I am unchanging, and this puzzle is all but a permanent fixture on an otherwise dull wall.