Unfinished, Undefined, Unwritten

I often catch myself drifting into moments of stillness that feel like laziness—an ocean of thoughts swirling around me, some like uninvited guests who have long overstayed their welcome. Anxiety and nervousness follow like shadows, casting doubt on my path. Where am I meant to be? What am I meant to become? What am I meant to do?

When I look in the mirror, I sometimes wonder if I’m seeing the real me or merely a character from one of my own ‘fictional’ tales. It’s hard to tell whether my hopes, dreams, and fears are truly my own or merely echoes of the world I have absorbed. When the noise fades and stillness settles in, I remind myself that I can be anything. Some days, I find joy in cooking—blending flavors, creating something new, as if composing a story through taste. Other days, I am a writer, a philosopher, an actor, a researcher, or a legal professional advocating for children and women. But when I strip back all these roles, all these shifting layers, the question lingers—who am I beneath it all? And what is it that I truly want?

This duality unsettles me—not because it pulls me in different directions, but because it offers no certainty at all. It leaves me suspended, neither fully belonging to the world around me nor entirely trusting the process of becoming.

Some days, I feel like an observer of my own life, watching myself move through moments, saying the right things at the right time, yet questioning whether the script was ever mine to begin with. Other days, I wonder if the problem isn’t the script itself, but my reluctance to embrace it. Maybe if I surrendered to the process, I would find clarity. Maybe if I stopped doubting, I would finally feel real. But how do you trust something so fluid, so ever-changing, so uncertain?

This space between knowing and unknowing offers no comfort. It does not root me in my surroundings or grant me faith in my own path. Instead, it stretches endlessly, making it difficult to commit to any single version of myself. I wonder if others feel it too—the quiet dissonance between identity and expectation, between who they are and who they think they should be.

Perhaps I am afraid to choose. Perhaps I fear that settling into one definition means leaving behind all the other selves I might have been.

And yet, I hope.

I hope this uncertainty means I am still growing.

I hope this weightlessness is not a sign of being lost, but of being in motion.

I hope that one day, I will not need validation to feel real.

I hope I will find a version of myself that feels like home.

Until then, I remain here, in the space between—watching, wondering, hoping.

Self-love is a maze I navigate slowly, often over a quiet cup of coffee in the morning’s calm. Do I love myself? I think so. But what do I truly know of love or the intricate web of relationships? I am drawn to life’s biggest questions, yet the answers remain elusive, slipping through my fingers like fog.

I search for meaning in the silent aisles of libraries and the restless hum of city streets, but the world moves too quickly. Everyone is absorbed in their own stories, too busy chasing something unseen. Who has time for my endless contemplations? After all, unraveling the mysteries of the heart doesn’t pay the bills—so why should anyone care?

They say the search for meaning leads to conflict with the world. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps I stand in quiet defiance of life itself, demanding answers it has no intention of giving. But isn’t that what makes it beautiful? That I still ask, still wonder, still challenge?

My search for meaning isn’t about finding hidden treasure. It is about diving into the depths of who I am. Once, my ambitions burned bright and close, illuminating my path. Now, they feel distant, fading like memories at the edges of my mind. Have I lost my way, or have I simply outgrown the dreams I once held so tightly?

Yet, despite it all, I still hope.

I hope everything I fear is just a lie.

I hope I am as vast and significant as the universe.

I hope love and warmth find me wherever I wander.

I hope the world is more compassionate than my darkest fears.

I hope people’s hearts are larger than my doubts.

I hope the world loves with an intensity that outshines the sun.

I hope it is nothing like me.

I hope it is something greater.

If the world is indeed greater, then let my happiness know no bounds.

If the world surpasses me, I will offer my apologies for every harsh judgment.

But if my suspicions hold truth—oh, the heartache of being right!

And yet, perhaps, in this enigmatic game, my greatest loss is also my quiet victory.