I make lists. In my head, on paper, online. Dreams, to dos, wants desires. Cross one of here, add on there. Moving things around until lost or completed. Stuck in this place where things are rarely completed. Scrub the kitchen walk out and it’s already dirty again.
Back on the list.
It’s fluid, it grows, it shrinks, it’s ever ending.
It’s made me a greater starter.
I start things and walk away, intending to come back. My house is littered with starts, I’m longing for finishes.
Life is fluid and moving, like an ocean it has no distinct start and finish. What you decide is the start where you walk in could be someone else's finish line.