I didn’t know, I thought I did, but I didn’t. The idea of being a whole being, of coming to an interval and realising that your story ends here, you are a conqueror, a complete existence. I desired a certain sort of fullness in life, the idea I so eagerly chased, what I failed to realise that some stories are better this way, to be ended in the midst of a life changing event, shutting down everything at the course of something extraordinary. To readjust your sails when you’re close to the shore. To let it all go in a promising moment. Ending significant conversations in the middle of a sentence, leaving all the important words unsaid, fleeing from comfort, giving up your quest of finding a home, rather living in the pathless woods, neglecting the idea of an eternal summer and learning to embrace the gloominess of a late winter night. There is comfort in longing, for something or someone. I thought humans were driven by their need to find settlement, some sort of destiny, but I failed to grasp that it was rather the journey that urged them to walk on, the in-betweens, the yearning, aching, of reaching an absolute end and having an irresistible desire to press restart.