There’s a notebook sitting on the floor next to my bed.

It’s beat-up, the edges curling in, pages stained with coffee and regret. Inside? A graveyard of unfinished songs. Half-written lyrics. Scraps of melodies. Pieces of something that never made it to whole.

I don’t know why I can’t finish them.

Maybe I get too in my head. Maybe I chase perfection until I choke the life out of whatever I’m working on. Or maybe—if I’m being real—I’m just scared.

Because once a song is done, it’s real.

And if it’s real, then people can hear it. And if people can hear it, they can judge it.

Or worse—they can ignore it completely.

So instead, I let them sit there. Words without endings. Chords that don’t resolve. A collection of what-ifs trapped in ink and paper.

And lately, I’ve been wondering—how many unfinished songs am I going to leave behind?

The First Song I Never Finished

I was thirteen when I wrote my first song.

It was awful. Something about running away, the stars, and a girl who didn’t even know my name.

Classic teenage melodrama.

But I remember how it felt—like magic. Like I had pulled something out of thin air and made it exist. Just me, my beat-up acoustic, and some half-rhymed attempt at feeling understood.

I never played it for anyone.

I told myself I’d come back to it, make it better. But I never did.

And that was the start of a pattern I still can’t break.

Why Do I Always Stop?

I have this bad habit of getting halfway through something—whether it’s a song, a project, or a plan to get my life together—and then just…stopping.

Not because I don’t care.

But because I care too much.

Because if I finish it, and it’s not good enough, what does that say about me?

It’s easier to leave it unfinished. To tell myself it could’ve been great, if only I had worked on it longer, if only I had more time, if only the world was different.

That way, it never has to fail.

It just…exists in limbo.

A song that no one can love or hate.

And I hate that I do this.

The Music That Saved Me

I wouldn’t still be here without music.

I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true.

There were nights when everything felt too heavy, when I couldn’t see a way forward—except for the songs that kept me breathing.

Not mine.

Theirs.

Springsteen. Elliott Smith. Jeff Buckley. Nirvana. Songs that felt like someone had cracked my chest open, reached inside, and pulled out the things I didn’t know how to say.

I remember lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, letting those voices carry me through.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I promised myself—one day, I’ll write a song that does that for someone else.

But I never finish them.

And I wonder—if the people who saved me had stopped halfway, if they had let their fear win—where the hell would I be?

Maybe it’s time to stop overthinking. To stop running from the fear of not being good enough.

Maybe it’s time to just finish something.

What I Want My Songs to Say

If I could actually get the words out—if I could take all these scattered lines, broken melodies, and half-finished ideas and turn them into something real—I think my songs would say this:

• You’re not alone.
• It’s okay to be lost.
• The past still lingers, but it doesn’t have to define you.
• You don’t have to have it all figured out—just keep going.

That’s what I would want someone to hear in my music.

Because that’s what I always needed to hear.

Maybe It’s Time

Maybe it’s time to stop making excuses.

Maybe it’s time to pick up the guitar, open that damn notebook, and finish what I started.

Because the truth is, no one’s going to do it for me. No one’s going to come along and say, Hey, J, here’s your moment. Here’s your chance.

You have to make the moment yourself.

So tonight, I’m going to try.

I’m going to pick one of these unfinished songs, the one that’s been sitting in the back of my mind for years, and I’m going to play it all the way through.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll finally finish it.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:

The things we don’t finish haunt us.

And I’m tired of being haunted.

—J