Because I’m incapable of completion
I’m really great at starting things that I never finish.
I fell in love, like really fucking in love, for the first time when I was 17. It’s not something that I understood precisely, it’s something I’ve figured out slowly, in the years that have followed. But, I got stuck there somehow, back in those young and restless days.
Now, I’m almost 27 and my heart is unfinished, back in those breathless moments with the spring sun peaking in from the small vent windows. It’s lost in the freshness of a gentle breeze, seeping in through the slightly cracked window.
This is my life.
In the meantime, in the intervening years that is, I have found myself lost and confused. I sort of learned Spanish. I sort of learned French. I sort of graduated from university. I sort of worked as a photographer. I sort of worked in communication. I sort of learned Lebanese Arabic. I sort of completed a masters. I sort of became a journalist. I sort of became an adult.
It’s honestly a lot of half-assed shit, a lot of laziness and incomplete goals that are caught in a perpetual state of partially there, but not quite. Can I finish things, actually? Can I accomplish something, completely?
And I’m still in love, the exact same way I was when I was 17. You’re so smart and you’re so kind and you like me so much and you think I’m great, I think.
But you’re playing video games and I’m smoking up watching movies. You’re there and I’m here. You forgot about me and I thought about you every day for almost a decade now.
You had a life and I did too, but sometimes I wonder if everything I ever did was just an attempt to impress you.
I guess you weren’t impressed, at least I don’t think so. It will remain hanging in a perpetual state of partially there, but not quite.