Perfectionist… I have never quite understood the term, I mean ultimately aren’t we all perfectionist? Id like to think its something etched into the human psyche which shackles us to perfect expectations… but what if it isn’t?

There was a period in my life where I could write for days. I’d find myself reading all sorts of knowledgeable and engaging content, content which would spark this burning desire for me to write. Fluid thought and new creative ideas and worldviews seemed to find me and subsequently I’d find a pen. In a way writing is the ultimate reflection of the writer. During a time when I thought I fully understood the world, at least as it pertains to me, my writing was assured, I believed whole heartedly in my words. Ultimately, when my mind is stable my writing is also stable.

Over the past 2 months I have been writing and re-drafting with no real ambition to publish any of the works I have written. It isn’t that I no longer have the ability to write, its more to do with what reflection I am reflecting onto my writing. As I said writing is a reflection of the writer; currently as a writer, or better yet as a person, I am at a crossroads where I have suddenly begun to realise that I indeed know very little. The less assured I feel about this world, our society, our practices and ideas, the more I feel myself being hung by the imperfections that once seemed so perfect to me.  

 

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