An Ode to Crosswords

Crosswords. They are a kind of complete that I am not and a type of disorganized that I am. The words don’t necessarily go together. In fact, they usually don’t. My inner workings don’t seem to go together all too well either. If they did, I wouldn’t be bipolar II. And of course, although the crossword’s complete, I’m not. Of course. None of us are. Some of us have more words spelled out and connected than others, sure, but we all have rogue tiles and mystery tiles. Real philosophical . . . I know.

I guess I hate being incomplete and disorganized, but the crossword’s disorganization mirrors my own disorganization and its completeness gives me hope.

Words. I like words. I like crosswords. I organize myself when organizing those tiles. But it’s no Ouija board. It doesn’t tell my future—and it doesn’t need to. It just needs to complete itself, for in that, somehow, it helps to complete me.