The post is labelled as draft. And the last sentence isn't even finished. A few lines written in haste reflect a moment you weren't ready to understand, or an idea that needed space to grow. But you never picked it back up. You never took the time to reflect. You never tended the seed.
Now it's dead and the moment is gone. And try as you might you can't quite find your way back to that place. That feeling. That urgency to record something that felt like it mattered.
The moment is lost forever, like so many others that you didn't even care to notice.
It feels like an opportunity missed. If it was important enough to start writing, why wasn't it important enough to finish? What if this was the poem or the story that would have made everything clear? What if you would have finally understood yourself in the untangling of those feelings and thoughts and sensations?
You will never know those answers. Even if you found words for an ending they wouldn't quite match the start. You're not the same person. It's not the same story. Too much time has passed.
Maybe they are best left unfinished. Unexamined. Unpublished. Maybe that state in itself is the story. Something half felt and half complete. The idea of a thing that never quite took form. A moment swept away and lost in the rush of life.
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