They are the only ones who make me. I am the only one who makes them. Ten thousand puzzle pieces with jagged edges and dispersed emotions like me. Ten thousand who should not be scattered but are scattered. Ten thousand confused events played out by life. From the table where they sit, I can remember them, but others forget and don’t care.
Their story is continuous. They draft new judgments into my cricut. They control me and they control words and dominate the world with their tiling arrangement and grasp the answers with locked doors and never let go. This is their purpose.
Let someone fail to recall their story, they’d go crazy like fireflies swirling around in a rustic mason jar, each light blinking to warn others. There is a purpose, purpose, purpose for everything mother says. They lead you through a journey.
When I am going in circles and too exhausted to continue my purpose, when I am lost dog with no tags, then I peer at puzzle pieces. When I think nothing is ahead of me. Ten thousand follow my every move. Ten thousand create and alway remember to create. Ten thousand put my pieces together.