Mystery

I say things like “life is a mystery,” and people nod and agree. Because it’s the only way to make sense of what just seem senseless. Like holding broken relics. It would be nice if I could have been there, when they were whole, but they wouldn’t have meant anything to me then. Just random objects. Just material possessions to make me feel connected to something I can never be a part of. But old and dusty and broken, they hold mystery.

Everyone is a little bit broken somewhere. Like old relics. That’s why we are late sometimes. That's why we don't show up at all sometimes. It’s not the distance or the last minute distractions. It’s the indecisions and all those metaphors for hope. It's those broken pieces inside us that make even the simplest things seem impossible. Sometimes there is just too much ground to cover. Sometimes there is just too much. And it’s easier to sit and leaf through some old magazine and wait. Glancing at the clock every so often. Feet frozen to the floor like magnets on a refrigerator. We sigh and wonder why it all has to be so hard. Like it’s a mystery.

Not all pieces fit back together. In fact, most don’t. But that never seems to stop us from trying. That never seems to stop us from forcing round pegs into square holes. Because desperation is far more beautiful than anything we can ever solve quickly. Life needs mystery, or else it’s all just lies. Like that one piece of the puzzle that gets kicked under the couch because we can't seem to make it fit. It's how we make sense of the senseless.