Every time when my hands rest on a keyboard or when pen meets paper, I gladly embrace ignorance. I let myself disregard the growing contradicting evidence piled before me, and I try again.
I try to write.
I know the hilarity of that statement, but I’m not hinting at illiteracy or inability. Believe me, after years of elementary school cursive lessons and countless classes, I’ve never questioned the process, but the end result, what I’m left with, has always carried an unsettling taste of being unfinished.
I believe in perfection.
Perfection is a misdiagnosed case of insanity, and while it is the same force that drives me insane as I decide whether my writing is finished or not, it is my enduring belief in this forbidden fruit that keeps my writing.
I view my thoughts and ideas as fluid, similar to water in that I can feel them, but if I try to grasp ahold of them, their true essence dissolves in shared comprehension. Writing is the transmission of consciousness into a very real thing, something that can be understood by others. Every time I write, I continue to reach for this undefinable personal truth and show it to the world, but without fail, perfection’s essence is lost in translation.
Writing without the belief of achieving this ideal exchange of consciousness to communication would destroy the appeal that causes me to strive for an unreachable limit. It’s the unsatisfying, torturous feeling that I feel when writing my seventh draft, writer’s block and staring into the vast whiteness of a blank Microsoft Word document. The feeling that what I truly know can not be shared. I write because I refuse to believe that it’s impossible.
I write because I believe in perfection.