the end of my story, my beginning 

All the puzzle parts of me that had flown away, all the suction cups, sticky strings were back. No one had retrieved them for me.

I had made my own my own mosaic and perhaps there were parts that were broken or dirty, but the picture was still beautiful.

And I didn’t regret those broken, dirty pieces, but loved them just as much as the clean, clear ones.

And, though the picture would always change, I would no longer lose sight of the sense of the whole.

I no longer needed to see the whole. I was whole. 

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