I have come to realize:
life is a grand celebration
of being unfinished.
Not in perfection,
not in the final note of completion—
the true wonder lies
in the sweetness of becoming.
It is seen in the teenage boy
who lingers by the roses in the grocery line,
hands trembling as he chooses the bouquet
to mirror his beloved’s eyes.
The neighbor plucks apples,
gives them to strangers passing by,
as if the fruit could soften
the loneliness of the world.
Once I marveled.
Now I know:
these are not mere wonders, but proofs
of the beauty of being incomplete—
not wrought by the flawless
or the finished,
but by human hearts that dare:
hearts aching, flawed,
yet still alive.
What joy.
What sorrow.
We are never complete.
And yet,
in our incompletion,
we bear—
the whole weight—
of love.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
I have come to realize:
life is a grand celebration
of being unfinished.
Not in perfection,
not in the final note of completion—
the true wonder lies
in the sweetness of becoming.
It is seen in the teenage boy
who lingers by the roses in the grocery line,
hands trembling as he chooses the bouquet
to mirror his beloved’s eyes.
The neighbor plucks apples,
gives them to strangers passing by,
as if the fruit could soften
the loneliness of the world.
Once I marveled.
Now I know:
these are not mere wonders, but proofs
of the beauty of being incomplete—
not wrought by the flawless
or the finished,
but by human hearts that dare:
hearts aching, flawed,
yet still alive.
What joy.
What sorrow.
We are never complete.
And yet,
in our incompletion,
we bear—
the whole weight—
of love.
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