I recently had a profound experience that gave way to a renewed awareness of life’s cyclical nature. Those who have known me longest may remember a story I spent more than a decade working on. It was never finished in any meaningful way. Sadly, it became something of a forgotten relic from another chapter of my life. Its title was Origin.

Memories of that unfinished story resurfaced. The experience felt a little like grief, and a little like catharsis. I found myself wondering - if I were to end the story today, or more likely begin it again - what would I change?

What emerged from that reflection wasn’t necessarily a vigour to complete the story (at least not yet), but curiously Where do I begin? It became less about the story itself and more about renewal - the idea of choice, and the quiet possibility of starting again.

I’m not certain there will ever be a true ending to Origin. What I’ve come to understand, though, is that beginnings rarely arrive with clarity. More often, they appear as a pause - a small space before the first step.