I didn’t finish anything today. I’m not even sure I really tried. But thoughts — there were plenty. Too many, as they tend to be.

Lately, I’ve started to think that finishing things is overrated. That being unfinished isn’t a sign of laziness or failure, but proof that something is alive. That it's still moving.

But being unfinished is no easy place to live. It’s not some curated aesthetic of imperfection. It’s uncomfortable, restless — a constant tug that something should be done. Now. Fully.

And still, today, I didn’t finish anything.

Maybe I’m part of a world where things aren’t meant to be completed. Or if they are, it happens accidentally — while my mind has already moved on.

It’s the same with jewelry. Each piece is finished for a moment. Then it begins again, shaped by whoever wears it.

Maybe that’s why I do this. Because unfinished isn’t a flaw — it’s a form.

A motion.

A slow kind of play.