Incomplete

Sometimes I waste time thinking about stuff that doesn’t need to be thought of. I probably do that to avoid thinking about stuff that needs to be thought about. One thing I never thought about before is if the lives we lead are ever really complete? I’m thinking that life is maybe one incomplete thing strung together with another and another and . . . another.

Incomplete like plenty of football passes.

Incomplete like light. You need a light bulb for light, but you need a lamp to screw the lightbulb into and you need electricity to power the lamp that lights the light bulb that lights the room. All of them alone are incomplete.

Incomplete like being alone.

Incomplete like living without a Good Woman’s Love.

Incomplete like simply living Without Love.

Incomplete like a day without a smile.

Incomplete like some symphonies.

Incomplete like a blog without anyone stopping by.

Or incomplete like we collect something like baseball cards or books. We put them on shelves or in binders or hang them on the wall and then we’re happy. Then the baseball season ends and sometime in the winter, in preparation for the next season, here comes another series of baseball cards. Or the author we love so much we collect their first editions puts out another book. Our collections are once again incomplete.

I suppose there are things that we do complete, like a book, a meal, a particular project, a round of golf, a hand of Bridge, collecting copies of every Grateful Dead show up to July 1995. But you get the idea. Or maybe you don’t because maybe the idea itself is incomplete?

If you live in the city of “Complete” could you be said to be incomplete?

I’m going to go think about something else now.

“Everybody’s desperate trying to
make ends meet. Work all day, still
can’t pay the price of gasoline and meat.
Alas, their lives are incomplete.”
– Warren Zevon (Mohammed’s Radio)

For RDP: Incomplete