Puzzle Pieces

I am in a room facing a vast board. Scattered on it are thousands of small colorful bits of cardboard, puzzle pieces. Scattered about are coherent continents, with ragged edges waiting for more pieces. As long as I have known, I have been idly placing pieces where they fit. I think the board was blank when I started, or maybe it had a few islands already put there from the beginning. New pieces show up inconspicuously. I can't remember a single time I noticed the arrival of one, or have been able to tell which are old and which are new. The pictures they draw make no sense to me, but I feel like they must be valuable to someone. At first it seemed that whoever was creating these pieces wanted to know what the picture was. But I suspected that they knew the picture well and wanted me to assemble it. I grew frustrated in my suspicion and took a piece that fit easily in a hole that had been unfilled, and conspired to place it anywhere else. I took others back out and, to my surprise, found them new places to live. I placed the pieces in the least obvious places I could find. The pictures they drew were still as meaningless, the same noise of patterns and colors and edges. But now I twisted them instead of them twisting me and they grew familiar. I trusted the pieces less and less, but still sensed the patterns were vastly important. I never did place the very first piece which had been refused its rightful place; its place sits vagrant and waits like an itch to be scratched.