Everyday, I have these little revelations, when I accept the different snippets of what's supposed to be and what's not. Like a blank piece of paper that has been drawn and written on, depicting a myriad of abstract pictures and meaningful words, and torn to shreds by a series of abrupt events, then meticulously affixed back together with an awkward bricolage of glue, tape and sweat. Granted, the illustrations are still interpretable, but the lines where the paper had been ripped are clearly visible, no matter how strong it has become due to its modifying fortifications. Yet, therein its right chest lies an empty patch, the remnants lost, perhaps deliberately, during the repairs. In its place though, is a sketch connoting episodes of self-justification, guilt, exhaustion and remembrance. But more significantly, it is an overview of realization, that what's lost is lost, and cannot be regained through any means.

Everything happens for a reason, although many a time it does not seem that way. Yes, I've gotten over losing those tickets. However, we both know this probably isn't just about that, but much, much more.