Not Good Enough

Abstract ideas flitter about in my brain like butterflies navigating a stiff August breeze. I try unifying them into something, a patchwork quilt of grandiose dreams showcasing profound thoughts that I feel are worthy of sharing with strangers and sycophants, maniacs and mentally sound, downtrodden and dignitaries, paupers and princesses in hopes of making a lasting impression that will forever change their lives. But before unveiling my work to the world, I scrutinize the stitching, then question the pattern. Thinking that it’s not good enough, that it requires additional refinement, I tear apart the completed piece. Quickly I discover that it can’t be resewn, reassembled or recreated. What was once coherent, vibrant, profound, now lies in ruin. These scraps of doubt then entomb me. Unable to manipulate the fabric, I remain immobilized by a misguided attempt to cover my perceived imperfections and bury my profound neurosis so my frail ego will be shielded from nonexistent ridicule.