A lot of time has passed, but nothing has changed.
I’m still a loner chasing nothing.
Even when I do something, anything, I can’t quite keep going.
I am unable to see it through to the end.
So help me, I wish I could; it’s a true dream of mine.
I want to be able to start and end something without delay.
Write a story, paint a picture, read a book.
About that last one…
The first time I let a story go unfinished, I pondered over it for days.
The plot was unappealing, the characters unattractive, the intensity an abandoned ruin.
It was the first book I ever never let end.
I just didn’t care.
There was no pull to the story, no magnetism to draw me in.
It was like trying to feel warmth from a plastic bottle.
I couldn’t do it.
I didn’t want to do it.
So I didn’t.
After that, many books have fallen unread, many characters born still.
Plots have plummeted off cliffs, words dropping into darkness.
This acute sense of incompletion has made me hyperaware.
I myself am a capture of imperfect ruin, borne up on pleasure and pain.
I think I might truly be alone in this mindset.
Am I special?
Or am I less than average?
I want someone to tell me so I won’t have to think another half-baked thought.