sol.ace_r

Life always begins in fragments.
No one is born complete.
We fall into this world as pieces with our own unique grain,
bumping into one another, slowly learning our shapes.
Sometimes we don’t fit—like mismatched puzzles.
Sometimes, we meet a piece that fits so perfectly, it feels like destiny.

But as time passes, we come to understand—
the puzzle of life is never meant to be completed.
It is only through the act of assembling
that we begin to discover who we truly are.

When I was young, everything seemed simple.
The sky was always clear, and the world fit neatly into the palm of my hand.
If a single piece didn’t fit, I grew restless.
Even the smallest gap made me want to take everything apart
and start all over again.
But adulthood taught me otherwise.
Life cannot be disassembled so easily.
Once two pieces are forced together, they leave a crack behind,
a reminder of what doesn’t belong.

Now, I’ve learned to live with the pieces slightly misaligned.
Perhaps those gaps are what allow us to stay alive.
A world where every piece fits perfectly
might be a sealed box—no room to move,
no space to breathe.

I still remember the pieces I’ve lost long ago—
some were people, others were moments.
I once believed I couldn’t live without them,
that without those pieces, my life would remain incomplete.
But time revealed otherwise.
Even with missing parts, my life found its own kind of wholeness.
The empty space became a window for new light to enter.
What I once saw as a flaw
has become a quiet place to rest.

Relationships work much the same way.
At first, we try to fill each other’s empty spaces.
But true closeness doesn’t come from filling—it comes from understanding.
Instead of carving ourselves to fit,
we learn to connect gently, just as we are.
Perhaps that’s what love truly means.

Sometimes people get hurt by the edges of my pieces,
and I, too, am scarred by theirs.
But those scratches shape me little by little.
To complete a puzzle
is less about perfection and more about accepting imperfection.

On some days, there are too many pieces.
My mind feels cluttered,
and I don’t even know where to begin.
Life becomes a vast puzzle box,
and finding myself seems impossible.
In those moments, I simply pick up one piece
and hold it in my palm.
When I lift it to the light, I notice a pattern inside—
a trace of meaning.
It may seem useless now,
but somewhere, someday, it will find its place.
Believing that—
that’s why I keep piecing my life together.

Sometimes, as I fit the pieces, I wonder—
Is completion truly a good thing?
When everything is finished,
and nothing more can be changed—
is that really happiness?
I find more comfort in incompletion,
in the quiet possibility of change,
the space to add something new.
That space is proof that I’m still alive.
Life isn’t about achieving a perfect picture,
but about continuously reshaping ourselves in search of who we are.

Perhaps living means
finding our piece in the great puzzle of the world.
Along the way, we stumble,
we end up in places we never expected.
And yet, somehow,
time brings every piece back into a kind of order.
Life completes itself in its own quiet way.

I still haven’t completed my puzzle—
maybe I never will.
And yet, I keep touching each piece—
the faded ones, the broken ones,
even the ones that will never fit again.
Because all of them together
form the picture that is me.

Now I know:
Life’s puzzle is beautiful precisely because it remains unfinished.
Where there are gaps,
new light enters.
There is space for new people,
new feelings, new beginnings.

Even if one day I hold the final piece in my hand,
I don’t think I’ll place it.
Not because I fear the end,
but because completion leaves no room to rest.
So I’ll leave that last piece aside,
to let time and wind pass through the gap.
Because that gap
is what keeps my life in motion.

Life is an unfinished puzzle.
We lose, find, and rearrange our pieces endlessly.
It’s the incompleteness that proves we’re still alive.
That, I believe, is the true shape of life.