Just One Thing

Words.

I need them to form to make something valuable. Something concrete. The words don't come. Even when I call them, they don't come. I sit here, wondering, when will I make something that I can be proud of? Will I continue to add to the dreck in this world or can I create something wondrous?

I'm trying. Or, at least I think I'm trying. I think that I'm making huge strides because my laptop is powered on and I have a guide book. I think I'm making progress because my fingers are hitting keys and sentences are forming. 

That doesn't even make sense. What does that even mean? And how am I supposed to make anything at all when I cringe at the sight of my own work. I read something I wrote and I hate it. I look at something I made and despise its existence. What do I do with that?

I'm hoarding little pieces of genius everywhere. Scraps of pages with half a verse of song and notebooks with half written stories. I don't finish anything. Afraid to complete the work because I think all my effort will be in vain. 

The alternative then is to never finish anything. Instead of working hard, I'm hardly working. Instead of completing an imperfect piece of art, I'm collecting half-finished nothings. 

I just want to finish one thing. I just want to get one thing done -- that's all. If I finish one thing, maybe that will inspire something inside me to get it all done. I just want to complete one thing before I perish. I don't need permission or a grade or credit. I just need the time and the space to finish.