Life.
A magical space of wonder.
A gift of endless possibilities.
Life itself, an incomplete thought.
We busy ourselves with endless tasks and self-induced responsibilities. Never fully reaching a definitive conclusion to our purpose.
The wholeness of physical presence is far too vast. No one method, or path, truly holds the infinite layers of our existence. It is always incomplete. This is validated by our ill designed, self imposed, state of 'living'.
Even after we depart, a part of us lingers. We set forth on some unknown adventure that one can only speculate.
Contained.
Uncontained.
Always as creation itself. Incomplete and ready for the next piece.
All of my work feels like there is more. Never quite the whole picture. Always yearning to be expanded upon. Perhaps that is the point. To be fully complete would defeat the purpose of a life, that in it's essence, is experiential and in continual expansion.
So, with this in mind, I have put together the following passages. Not as the beginning, nor as the end of contemplation, but as the interludes to incomplete thoughts. Always room to try and find a beginning or propose an end. No more or less than One Minds' Book of Incomplete Thoughts.
Wonderfully Incomplete in itself...
Ruby Koevort
