Perplexed and Puzzled

Sitting on the slope of Alamo Square facing a row of painted ladies, I am stricken by how perfectly the pieces fit together. The roofs fade into another, the complementing colors of each door and shutter cast along the San Francisco street like a very befitting rainbow. Is it one house or many?

He grabbed my hand, if nothing but to compare the length of my thumb to his, but once our fingers touched they locked like two puzzle pieces that belonged to no other. Are we designed to be this way or is it forced or by mistake, like all the other tries before this?

In my apartment, 2000 tiny cardboard cut outs with jagged, squiggley edges decorate my kitchen table. 2000 specs of a Starry Night, scattered and confused but in my touch. I bought the puzzle as a means to get away from the norm of my computer and my cellar-room walls, and to remind me of the virtue, patience. It is a worthy pursuit, especially considering the like colors, repetitive edges, and limited space. I'm still wishing upon stars to find the matter an accomplishment. And this, too, is befitting.

The question pokes at me: What fits?

My life was picked up and put back down on the edge of the world, in a pointed corner on a hill dubbed Frisco. The houses and skyline and trees all certainly fit together with a balanced equilibrium that on a regular basis brings happy tears to my eyes; yet me within this puzzle, I doubt my place.

In my home, or space presumed a home, I'm next to another piece that looks like it should match. It's the same color and shape and age... and for over a year I've tried to connect my ends to its. For over a year now I've felt that even though I should fit here with her, and even though we're close with very little space between us to suggest it's wrong, some pieces simply do not go together. The looks deceived me. My personal puzzle will never be complete with this mismatch jammed inside me.

So I seek outside my self for matching neighbors and connection. I seek solidarity from friends and dates and fingers intertwined in mine. What troubles me is that it's still so hard to tell if these ties are true, and correct, and meant to be as if it were written in the starry night... or is everything in this city forced for me?

I can't find the last edge piece of my puzzle. I'd feel a lot better if I knew it even existed and could contain all the other loose ends. But at a certain point, you have to work on the tiny aspects in the core, and get to the external surrounding in its own time. I don't know if the whole thing will work out. I don't know if all the houses at Alamo Square are connected - I don't know if that hand in mine is meant to BE mine - I don't know if my apartment will ever be my home - I don't know if San Francisco is the place I fit in general.

I do know that I can only take it one step and one piece at a time. It's a practice in patience, after all. I vow to my self and to the knowing thing within me that even when the pieces get mismatched, I will fix them, and some sweet day, I'll have the big picture in place.