I like finishing a puzzle. I usually start with the corners and building the wall on each side. Then, I focus on the obvious portion of the puzzle in the center, like the head of a horse, wings of a butterfly. Slowly I work outward. Gradually, fewer pieces are left behind. It gets easier as I go: I start to notice the subtle differences, like color variations or pattern changes. Even a hunch becomes more accurate. It gives me a great satisfaction when the puzzle is finished, as if I have just accomplished something important in life.
I wish life is like finishing a puzzle that has predefined path and as long as you work hard you will get there eventually. But, life is not a puzzle. There is no predefined path, only mysteries; no guarantee of succeeding even if you put your life on the line, only risks.
Maybe that is the beauty of it, not knowing it all;
Maybe that is the beast of it, not guaranteeing anything;
But, I hate not knowing; I hate loose control; I hate not being rewarded for five years planting a family tree with all seeds died inside of me. Why life has to be that cruel? Why cannot life be a puzzle?