Maybe,
Perhaps,
Life is incomplete,
No one has it all,
Both the rich and the poor,
Both the young and the old,
The fair and the dark,
Each seem to be scrambling for something,
Like self-perfection.
You know, Joan…
Life is incomplete,
And there is nothing we can do about it,
There is no rest,
Anytime and anywhere.
The fulfilment of one goal leads to the search of another,
Endless questions that run deep like an ocean.
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Life is incomplete,
Because, there is always something to do,
Mr. A is rushing towards the east,
Mr. Z is returning from the north,
Everybody have something to do,
At one point in time,
Tell me Joan,
Is life not a service?
And what more can I say?
How best can I explain it?
That life has trouble of its own?
Tell me Joan,
Why would Jude sent his wife packing because of a male child?
While Charles and his wife wait patiently for a child?
Why would Dan continuously invest in assets but never happy,
While Damon happily begs for bread,
Life is incomplete.
We may not really control life in its entirety,
But we can bridge that gap,
That voidness,
That always awaken in our subconscious mind,
Can be filled.
Though,
Life may be incomplete,
We too can break the odds and be the complete version of ourselves.
