On my mind

I was reading an anthology earlier and felt a sudden urge to blog. I’m not much of a blogger, considering I’ve only posted once a year since I published my site in 2019. There’s just something intimidating about writing a full-length blog post, as opposed to micro-blogging (I may or may not still use tumblr because I’m definitely still an angsty 17-year-old girl). I have several draft posts that may never get published at this point: one about my customer journey at an IKEA in Southampton, back when I was studying in England and another in reflection of my trip to Turkey, also from a few years back. Can I blame the artist in me that is never quite satisfied with my own work and opts to leave things unfinished? This is my take: when a piece is completed, it is released and invites criticism; its presence allows for rejection, whereas when pieces are incomplete, they can still be altered and improved.

And so here we are, it’s 2022 somehow, and I’m still leaving so much unfinished. This, in a sense, parallels my preference for stories with open-ended interpretations. I know I’m in the minority in my aversion for definitive endings, which oftentimes feel lackluster, especially your typical “happy-ever-afters.” Nevertheless, as an author of my own story, I face the unwritten chapters with both enthusiasm and trepidation. There is so much uncertainty and fear that comes with aging, such as losing our loved ones to ill-health and time. As I approach 30 this year, I pray for wisdom to choose the right paths, even if they are the “one[s] less traveled by.”