Unfinished Business

I've been working on my apartment for about four months now. I've agonized over furniture choices, daily platewear, furniture arrangements, and so many other details. I've bought art on ebay and somehow managed without trying to have three matching paintings from three separate artists. Within all these details, however, I still find myself undone. The walls in my bedroom are empty and vacant. I often feel that I am somehow neglecting something important by never finishing my first real home; that I was merely lazy. I know that I've put in the work, though. I know it's not the procrastination of my past. But looking at them just now I realized there is a delicious choice in doing all these things. That even though my walls are blank, I can already see what will fill them. And for me, the endless projects are part of what drive my life, along with a endless complex, complicated list of activities and action and thoughts and people.

Perhaps it's not a profound idea. But I love my empty walls. I love that I still have something to fill.