Completion is nothing

Love, happiness; it's all anyone not self-admittedly shallow and materialistic wants. Once you've lassoed them, then what?

I guess there are the type that are okay with that. Monotonous happiness. Those are grandparent-types. You know. Million years old, still together, wrinkled as all get-out, holding hands, chaste kisses, dusty smiles. I know you know who I mean.

They are a small percentage of the population, though. Less then 25%. Much less. Maybe 10%. Maybe 5%. Or somewhere in between. I've never been good with numbers.

But hey. If you fall into the grandparent category, and you're in love with another grandparent type, you're set for life. Congratulations. A bliss of varying volumes is yours for eternity.

But you and me-- we're the other type. We're the quiet guys and the abrasive guys. We're the shy girls and the whores. Doesn't matter what you categorize yourself as. We've all got that spark of self-loathing inside. We've all got that self-destruct button we like to pummel once in a while. Usually the times when we really, really shouldn't.

But we do anyway. Just because.

We explode. We fly up and break apart, shards of our hopes and wants and dreams and wishes flying like confetti; ashes to ashes, and all that; and when the mangled bits of ourselves, smoking softly, we put ourselves back together.

We start over.

Because the journey is the best part.