My Compulsion

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.