flâneur

if there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone

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the answer must be in the attempt

you cannot fully understand another person. there’s a strange assumption, that familiarity eventually becomes completion — that after enough conversations, years, shared meals — there will come a point, where someone is known in their entirety, as though a life could ever be that finite. it may just be because i have watched myself become unfamiliar to older versions of me, i have changed my mind about things i once defended fiercely, i have grown into joys i never expected to have, and quietly abandoned griefs i once thought permanent — so, if i remain unfinished even to myself, then what…

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