Mosaic

I am a hundred different pieces, broken down into a hundred once again, all with jagged little boundaries that never seem to fit into a legible coherence. Slivers are missing off their edges, filed away by time and accident and misadventure, left behind, forgotten, until it came time to put things back together. Does it matter that they don't fit? It seems to, though I don't mind the empty spaces in between. It means there's room; freedom left over to add something new, without the suffocating closeness of trying to jam it in. But it seems everyone wants it to fit the way it used to. Nothing ever does. The slivers are gone, like footprints washed away by a relentless rain, window drawings filled in by the mist. The pieces change, move around, fall by the wayside to be replaced by something different. Nothing remains, all things ever-changing, dancing, swirling, laughing, crying. It jumbles the pieces, pushes the boundaries, creates an opening, an escape, a fork in the road. And from somewhere comes the courage to take it, to listen to the whispers, to hold your breath and run into the darkness until the sunlight warms your face and all the pieces find their rightful place once again.