That moment when two puzzle pieces fit together quite obviously, you reach for the one and a small child snatches it from your hand, forces another into its rightful place. With squeezing, the fit is forced at best, haphazard at worst, and the other will not bond with another piece. Its spot has been swallowed up by the fist of a toddler.
So did this actually happen? No, it did not. It's a metaphor. I am trying as hard as I can to make it to where I know I am supposed to be, and yet a stubborn, sweaty grip is pushing back into former place. I do not want to see its matchmaking abilities anymore; I would be glad to simply sink into the satisfying cardboard slot, or take the next best option and force my own fit. Lying on the table, discarded, is a candy wrapper's game. Once so sweet, and now unnecessary, wasting space that could be used for the puzzle.
Jam. Jam it in tight.
No comments:
Post a Comment