it is 3:23 a.m. and her text message dusts off my sleepiness.
why?
i try to make sense of her message.
i dunn
she doesn't even finish her sentence. but it doesn't matter -- for where her words were lacking, her emotions were more than complete.
i mused:
these days, we are defined by words, no matter if complete, disemboweled, or inchoate. for we have become mere snippets of words and emotions --
but it is that same incompleteness that defines our whole.
it's the little flickers of light which illuminate the being, or the sporadic confessions of grief that betray the perennial sadness.
and i am certain, that when i am submerged in a sea of strangers, the random faces are also snippets of stories --
that i am not alone in thriving in my own incompleteness.
