Incompleteness..

There is something haunting about the incomplete things. A painting left incomplete with just two eyes drawn on the canvas, staring at you, penetrating you deep down inside. A house in the neighborhood, left under-constructed, which didn't see the joys and the celebrations of the people who would have lived in there, had it gone on to become complete. A tree uprooted in the storm, its greenness drying out of its veins with every passing moment and unripe fruits still on its branches. A paper with few words written on it but all smeared and illegible now. A promise promised long ago but now not kept and forgotten and along with it crushing all the dreams which were seen but never became reality. And when the realization strikes that this incompleteness is there to stay, forever, it instills hollowness inside. Paradoxically, this hollowness is so complete; it engulfs the mind and senses completely blocking the space for any other thoughts to come in.