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  • Epifania Amoo-Adare

I am, that Unfinished Sentence

photo of author taken by Rapti Siriwardne-de Zoysa

growth lies in

the uneasiness

the in-between

the unfinished sentence

I am an unfinished sentence. I move between a constant wanting and yet I desire little. I also live within patience—just waiting, while still being decidedly impatient.

In essence, I reside in the troubled “in-betweens” of not knowing exactly what it is I am to do, in this lifetime, but yet having some certainty that things are always the way they ought to be.

I am an unfinished sentence. I am a square peg, refusing to ram into a round hole, because the possibility is something way larger than the mass in which that hole resides.

And it is for this immense probability that I hanker.

Yet, instead, I am caught fast in worldly consciousness. But still, I try to resist the allure of daily wealth seeking, which soon turns into money-grabbing and a persistent desire for material things.

I am an unfinished sentence. I am both uncomfortable with praise, but ambitious enough to desire it.

I am that perfect combination of sit and wait, but don’t hesitate; that exquisite composition of doubting but certain, doubting but certain, doubting but certain, yes, being rather uncertain that no doubt I will make it through yet another day like this one, and with my sanity intact.

I am an unfinished sentence. I teeter totter on the thin line between doing what I love and having to do what I hate. And better yet feeling inspired to move beyond the paradox of having no grand proposition, but still aspiring to one.

I am an unfinished sentence. I am no longer trying to be something that I am not, while also not knowing what I can truly become. So, I keep trying and will, surely, die trying, and trying, and trying some more.

And every time I trip and fall into despair, through so much mere trying, hope reaches in for me with alternatives, options, ideas for surviving—no, in fact—for thriving in yet another day.

I am an unfinished sentence, looking to live beyond the enthusiasm of mad success in a material world, but still craving to be known for what I can do—to be known beyond the boundary of my insignificance.

Truly, I am still searching for my place in the stars, while knowing that I am more infinite than the dark night—that invisible bond from which something comes bang out of nothing.

I am an unfinished sentence. I live furtively within this abject absence of glory, while longing to manifest a new existence.

As another world is possible!

And it is calling my name. Yet I trudge in confused circles toward the surety of my transformation—along with that of you, and you, and you, and you, and you too.

photo of a table cover at Jamestown Cafe, Accra

I am an unfinished sentence. I am always grateful yet dissatisfied with all that surrounds me, simply because we can do better. We are better than the apathy I cling to, since it is safer.

And the same goes for the self-aggrandizement of living in a predictable future of me being relatively better off than many of you, which is then of greater comfort than engaging in this burden of the present—so as to transform it.

I am an unfinished sentence. I know that what stands in my way is fear, yet I hold on tight to its familiarity—cradling my procrastination for all sorts of damned good reasons.

And sure, I get as many shots as I want to take, even as it always feels like this is my last chance to make it through to the “other world is more than possible”; it is here, within each of us—right now.

This is why I feed my lethargy with sudden bursts of productivity, such steep sugar spikes before more lows and oh how low I can go, real slow, so low—drowning in my inability to command the universe, even as I know I shouldn’t want to, need to—but I do.

So low do I go,


I am





a strength from which

I soar...

For, as you well know, I am forever that unfinished sentence. I reside in the crevices of some unknown fate which I twist toward a destiny of my choosing.

Yet I am bedraggled, desperate, and rather unsure of myself.

I worry about how you might think of me in this state. Simultaneously, I could not care less, since it is what-is: me doing myself a disservice of not trusting that we are all where we are supposed to be in any given moment.

Yes, both you and I

will always find

this moment,

one way or another—among these many, many, many

unfinished moments,

as this


is our incompletion,

our mere and conjoined


in some uneasy




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