Unfinished Stories

I keep coming back to all the random, left at half, unfinished pieces of prose and poetry I have crafted.

They lie scattered in notebooks, diaries, journals, and memos of all hues and textures. Hastily scribbled once, with a twinkle and sparkle in my eyes, and a deep, unquenched thirst and a mad penchant for those words, they now lie abandoned in favor of other thoughts, other ideas, other dreams, other stories that somehow seemed more promising, more just, more relatable, more remarkable at that time.

I am a writer.
And, writers do that sometimes.

Letting stories stay incomplete, hoping, someday, to be able to weave a magic that is hidden, reluctant to reveal itself for the time being.

And, then I remember.
You are a writer, too.

Is that why you have allowed our story to pause? Letting it hover between us in the silence that keeps cropping up in the middle of our conversations? Letting it drift, until it fades, like the last, fleeting, faint remnants of the melody from your favorite song? Letting it be? And hoping it transforms into a prayer that He hears, and answers favorably?

I hope so.

But then, we should not forget this simple truth.
He pens down destinies, letting some stay unfinished.

Writers, they do that sometimes J