If you write words and no one reads them, are they invisible?
What happens when someone dies and leaves behind their dog-eared diaries or hidden porn or quarter-written stories or the oil painting just being sketched or the guitar music with no lyrics or the poem with just one stanza?
Who will complete the thoughts, the art, the masterpiece, the garbage? Anyone? Or will it remain in limbo, like a half-eaten meal, dishes on the table, food congealing and cold?
Our eyes might gloss over the work, not knowing the heart, the love, the angst, the hatred, the hope, the fears that created the incomplete works.
Or someone might finger the papers and pick up a pencil and write, surroundings forgotten or strum the notes while singing new lyrics, a collaboration unexpected.
Who knows? And will the person gone care? or assist in the completion, unseen and unfelt? C