A Love Letter to Everything I’ll Never Finish

There’s a quiet cruelty in beginnings without ends.
Books left to gather dust, their pages folded in half like promises I couldn’t keep. Poems that start with fire but die in silence, suffocated by my own hesitation. Plans drawn in the dirt, erased by the wind before they could ever root.

It’s not laziness, exactly. It’s more like a slow unraveling—each unfinished thing a wound that never fully scars. I wonder if the weight of what I never finish is heavier than what I see through to the end. Maybe it is.

To start is to hope, but to not finish is to understand your limits—your fractures, your quiet surrender. I’m an expert at the halfway point, the “almost there,” the shadow of completion that never quite arrives. Because finishing means facing what I’ve become—a mosaic of broken intentions and fading dreams.

Sometimes I think the parts I abandon tell more truth than the polished whole. The silence between chapters screams louder than any ending ever could.

I’m not afraid of failure. I’m afraid of the finality that finishing demands. And so I linger in the liminal space—haunted, incomplete, endlessly undone.

Maybe that’s where I belong. In the beautiful ruin of my own making.

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