A book sits next to my bed. 227 pages read, 129 more to go. 

Three drafts reside on my Google Drive: a children's story about a clown dog, a ghost story with only three pages written, and a true story about me and my relationships. All started, none completed. 

A to-do list jotted down in a spiral notebook with ugly, yellow pages, sits on my desk at work. Some things are crossed off, some things are not. 

A 2015 list of resolutions is folded eight times in a small white, cardboard box; it’s never been taken out since the move. 

If I unfold the piece of paper, one corner at a time, to reveal the list I wrote in 2015, would I be disappointed? Probably.