Incompleteness

"What was that now - just a moment ago
from it was mine and now it's gone,
like the swift movement of a moment, gone
maybe I'll remember because it felt as through it started to be mine."
Marylin Monroe

Nothing is complete, neither inside or outside of me. There are so many empty spaces between the seconds and every one of them is full of possibilities that never will be concrete. Most of the time, life is spent on no-basis: the no's that we live build our history, our personality, our masks - my hole.

And, from my hole, I become whole.
In some painful, melancholic way - but it's the only way I've ever known. Don't blame me on this, please.
I'm always trying to be a less incomplete person. Should I chase this type of impossible?
Well, where would be the joy of it if we don't dream?
I'm a dreamer. An incomplete dreamer.

Everyday, I have to deal with the incompleteness.
With the gaps of things I'll never know, places I'll never travel, people I'll never meet.
With the loopholes of my own answers, the spillovers of my confused feelings, the questions of my messy mind. I have to deal with myself - mainly, I have to handle everything that I am not.

Furthermore, I have to be myself.
Accepting that I feel angry, boredom, sadness, envy, jealousy. Yes, sometimes I fill my empty spaces with the worst category of things.
But I also can be very happy.
And, when I'm happy, it's that kind of bliss that only a person who meets deeply the tragedy can understand.

Can you?