I stroke my good temper and safe comfort. Tiny pieces with little peninsular nubbins on each side, looking for you to hold them and connect them again. They can’t connect themselves. Jigsaws present a whole image - once completed - and fragmented triggers of recollection as you wade through the pieces. The pieces are riversome: cascading as your hand trawls through the box to find the next piece. I find it comparable to how I trawl across my own stability, looking for the next bad thing to sucker punch me. Your hand strokes the piles of pieces and I stroke my good temper and safe comfort: awaiting another dose of oh well.
Should I kill that voice in my head? NO! I love her. Never completed one. Last one I got, my flatmates took care of it because I didn’t have the mental patience. Ankur got me an Aladdin one which I assume was a joke of some sort. You ever just tried warping a jigsaw piece to make it fit, because you didn’t have the patience or energy to just sit for a moment, breath, and figure it out? Yeah, I’ve been doing that but with my… brain. Just always trying to mould it into whatever frame’s presented itself to me at the time. Adamant to be a part of any given bigger picture, willing to bend my corners and moisten the edges so they start disintegrating and slotting in easier. What happens though, is that the rest of the pieces get fucked up and distorted too. There you are, just wanting to fit in, poor thing, ending up as a toxic piece of a watercolour puzzle, causing all the others to limp and creak apart from their natural joints. Why did you do that?