The Puzzle.

If Neruda can write the saddest line for a lover's lost,
why can't I write the happiest line for a lover not yet found?

Someone told me that I had to start picking up the pieces of the puzzle I am trying to solve. All this while, I have been thinking about Sphinx's riddle and digging into the passages of this wandering. It was a task neither easy nor dull. Solving it made me twist myself until I can't breathe any longer. I was suffocated. I thought I was going to burst and die from asphyxiation. Little did I know, there's nothing left to burst. The last drop that could fell has already passed by even before I realize it. The only consolation left to my despondent weariness was that the puzzle never made my life dull. Each time that I had to stretch my brains was a learning opportunity in disguise. It was a stretching situation that made my deciphering painful, yet exciting; baffling yet, intelligent; and critical yet redeeming. It wasn't really bad after all. All the while it was my outlook that made me missed the greater purpose of the puzzle. It's a good thing that someone told me that I had to start picking up the pieces of the puzzle that I am trying to solve. If not, perhaps I have been brooding eternally upon how to do it, when all I should have done is to pick one up and fit it with another one.