Perfection

Writing has always been a part of my life.The only stumbling block is this:every time I look back on what I've written, I have an overpowering urge to destroy it.To obliterate all traces of its existence.For nearly two decades I've done exactly that:Write something.The next time I read it,I can guarantee that it's going to end up in shreds.Very little of what I've written has survived my wrath.

I write when I feel like it.When an idea keeps eating away at me.An idea is something beautiful.Something powerful.It starts out as a very tiny glimmer.Its identity is almost nothing.The first thoughts that lead to an idea are always priceless.And then if you let it,it grows into something.Feed it with your imagination.Let it run around in your head while you're otherwise occupied.You can see it take shape.After many many iterations it's turned into something concrete.Now it's perfect.It starts gnawing at you.How can you not put something this beautiful into words?No matter how much I resist,I need to do it.

I put pen to paper(rather fingers to keyboard these days) with so much hope.I can't wait to see how wonderful this will turn out.I start writing.The words flow effortlessly.Continuously.It's done in a matter of minutes.I have the satisfaction of having done justice to an idea.Sometime later, say a week,I have the disastrous thought of going back and reading what I've written.

From there,it all goes to hell.I read,and I literally want to weep.What have I done?The idea was so perfect,so glorious.What I've written,on the other hand,is a mockery.The flow is distorted.The power that's supposed to come across is so diluted I can barely feel it.The digressions are so long that they almost ruin the entire thing.I want my sentences like staccato bursts and instead they end up being long and rambling.Nightmare.It's my very own Frankenstein.No wonder it ends up  in the trash! I can't even look at it leave alone retain it and acknowledge it as my own.

So what's changed now? Why am I writing this? And what are the chances this isn't going to end up the same way?

Somewhere along the way,I've realized that what I've been looking for is perfection.(That mythical creature that seems just within your grasp every time?Elusive though.Always elusive.)I'm never going to find that.There's probably never going to be a time when I can look at something I've written and smile.Yet,here's the more important question:which would I rather have? To look at something I write and live under the illusion that it's perfect?Or to see clearly my own limitations?The former means living in an illusion.The latter,on the other hand,means that I'm getting better.Each time I cringe at my own writing indicates that I've outgrown it.That I've become better.I know that perfection is never going to be attainable.I'd rather live in a world where I'm getting closer to that than in an imaginary one where I think I'm already there.

I've decided to accept that with equanimity.I write now;knowing that it's imperfect.Knowing that it'll never be perfect.Yet, it's worth it:)