Rants of a sleepless mind:

Things in their incompleteness at least have the hope of their turning out good at the end. It's when they are complete that  no room for hope remains. I, therefore, seldom finish the work I start, be it art, books or poetry,  and especially poetry, for no particular reason that I am aware of and it's the unawareness that keeps me at it. Perhaps, I like to be hopeful, maybe I am just not strong enough to live the certainty of an apprehended outcome and wants to enjoy the comfort of uncertainty of what ifs. 

  It's certainly  not a healthy way of pursuing things, or anything for that matter, but often our whims outlive our judgement of wrong and right. And that's the cause of all the worries.