I’ve always felt wrong, like a 1000 word puzzle smashed together by a careless three year old. Pieces jammed in out of place and out of shape, the picture a mutated attempt at what’s on the box, with all the symmetry of Picasso.
The image on my metaphorical box is pretty and well ordered, my pieces are not. I’ve always felt like the small child responsible for my creation got angry and tired halfway through and tossed everything up in the air to let the pieces fall where they may.
Leaving me unfinished and full of holes.