i don’t suppose that i will ever be “finished.” that my work, or my movement, or my hopes or dreams or plans will ever be satisfied. and i feel this in the most joyous of ways, in a way that makes me skeptical of what i have been taught to believe – that some day, at around age 65, i will decide i want to live my life instead of lining someone else’s pocket thickly and mine only lightly, and live a life of repose. i will always want rest, and i will always want motion. i will not live to be finished; i will not live for a sum of money or an age of retirement.

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