We All Finish Unfinished
Maybe I Am Meant to Be Unfinished When I was young, I thought life was a question that needed a single answer. At different points, I wanted to be a poet, a filmmaker, a librarian, a café owner, a therapist, an architect, a musician playing on sidewalks. I imagined selling books in a quiet little town, growing my own vegetables, healing people, wearing suits in glass buildings, dancing on rooftops in cities that never slept. Sometimes I even wanted to disappear. Looking back, these were not confused dreams. They were different windows through which I wanted to experience life. Perhaps that is what growing older teaches us. Our goals do not remain still because we do not remain still. What seemed desperately important at twenty may feel strangely irrelevant at forty. What we once called success may later seem like an elaborate distraction. A failure that broke us at one age may become the very experience that gave us wisdom at another. Life keeps editing us. ...