Unfinished stories.

I seem to have come over all nostalgic. I was browsing through my writing folder, which has grown in fits and starts over the years, and I came across this little passage, written one evening about two years ago.

A life of unfinished stories. As I sit here now, trying to finish off something that I should have completed an age ago, I look back over my writing.

Compilations, compositions, from years of jotting down the little thoughts and the big ones that came into my head.

The threads of coherent thought that I could grab and pull from the mounting noise and chaos.

Some of them are short, some a little longer. Some of them are deep and meaningful, some as shallow as a puddle.There are a few common threads though. All of them are well written. All of them have a meaning. And every single last one of them is unfinished.

What is it that my life is a collection of unfinished stories? What happens when I do finish one? What does it take to finish a story?

Needless to say, I didn't finish it.