I remember drawing in pen. Doodling, scribbling, mindlessly tearing away at the surface of paper.

I throw away the paper and start again. I get a new paper; I am ready to create a fresh, new drawing.

I draw a line.

I fail a line.

The paper is young, and I tear it apart, ready to try again.

My strokes are inelegant and frustrated, and I waste many sheets.

But when I look at life, I realize I cannot throw out the imperfect me’s and start anew.

But it’s the curse of the perfectionist who judges all things from their beginning creation

because every mark, in pencil or pen, will always leave lines like ink.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 19th, 2010 at 6:45 pm and is filed under Reflections. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.