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Perfect Imperfect

I look back at my words and I shudder and cringe. I have my ideas; they are proper and prim, brilliant and clear. Yet I've discovered a problem. I cannot command them. Not properly, at least. By the time I transcribe them, a transformation occurs. My ideas bleed down from infinite imagination, unequaled worth, into what is truly there, written on paper. I find my words lesser, repugnant and bland.

If only I could record those bright broad aspirations upon paper with words not muddled or bleak.

Words upon paper, you see, are much better than any idea because those words are real outside of my mind. Perhaps my ideas aren't any good since I shudder and cringe when I read them on paper. That which is real is better than that which isn't. Surely my ideas would be worth more on paper? But no. I run from my ideas written down.

I'll read this again. I'll be disappointed. A fit of frustration.

Ideas aren't enough when you can't say what you mean.



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