I write. Driven my some unknowable impulse. I write. And write. And write. I am writing this now because I have to write, because I am compelled beyond all logic and reason to write, so I write. I write and I write and I write. And yet, nothing I write is ever good enough. I second guess it, analyse it, and over-analyse it again, and rewrite. And rewrite, and rewrite. Until I am mad and desperate and on the verge of some sort of break...
Then I have a moment of clarity, and it all makes sense, and I know it will never be perfect, no matter how hard I try to attain this idea of perfection that I have in my mind's eye, I can never reach that point no matter how hard I try, but then I realize and I know and I tell myself and I believe that it's true. It can never be perfect.
I will get it as close to perfect as I can get it, and I will send it out into the universe, and hope that it makes sense on some level to someone somewhere out there.
Then I start on the next one, and I start the process over again, but the next time around, I have the faith, and it drives me, until I have lost all sight of it, until I reach that one desperate moment and it all becomes clear again and I know it's okay.
And it is okay.