My thoughts, some days, are so jumbled and scattered and frazzled that I cannot begin to capture them in language. I try and try and try and come up empty. Nine or ten incoherent paragraphs in, I finally give in and allow myself to give up. Surrender does nothing for my ego, but at least the stress of impotent attempts begins to dissipate. I’m left in embarrassed defeat. Perhaps I need that from time to time. A reminder that my imperfections ultimately will catch up with me; there’s no use in struggling against inevitable failure.
Inadequacy is a reminder that perfection, or even a tolerable facsimile thereof, exists only as an idea, not as an indisputable truth. I suppose what I learn from this is that attempting to write after an essentially sleepless night is a fool’s errand.