There is a quiet dignity in things that are not finished.
A house where a tool is still lying around.
A book in which empty pages are still waiting.
A thought that has not yet found its ending.
I used to see the unfinished as a defect.
As proof that something was missing.
Today I see it differently.
The unfinished is not failure.
It is a state of possibility.
A finished work is closed.
An unfinished work is alive.
Perhaps that is why I never truly tried to be finished.
Not from fear.
But from instinct.
Because being finished means having nothing left ahead of you.
And as long as something remains open, there is a tomorrow waiting for me.
Not because it must.
But because I have not yet said everything.
And perhaps that is enough.
