There is a sadness in completion, I was told. He sat at the fireplace, staring emptily into the flames, eyes already too stubborn to respond to the flickering. He moved his hand over the floor, the large stones flat and polished, then in parallel lines, evoking the stone and wood of the walls of the room. It is nearly done, and I nodded approvingly, the transition from house to home already occuring in my mind as I mentally placed my belongings around the rooms. He sighed, and with eyes alive again, studied my face. Having found what they sought, he turned away, discarding the fire and eventually settling on the door. Tommorow, I will be done, and will be elsewhere. I have mastered my craft, but never have I mastered Anicca. I tilted my head, and considered asking, but I could tell he was not really there anymore.
Some time ago, at a party, I took some markers, and traced the lines that felt right to make, filling the page. Patterns in the paper reflected the kinds of marking I am likely to make. I wonder at the information content in such a thing. The lines were not meant to communicate -- the moment of transition exquisite. The paper now is, while marked, as dead to me as could be. I think I must keep it only as a memory of the making, for it means nothing more.
My hair is now long enough to reach its full, naturally curly self.
I have more to say.