Happily uncreative

I aspire.

I desire.

(I perspire).

I want.

But, it seems, it’s just not meant to be.

Whilst I can appreciate art in many forms, place value on the productions of others, it seems that I’m just not particularly creative.

Not that I can’t be creative to a certain level but I’ve long since realised my limitations in that area.

But realisation doesn’t stop the longing, the niggling feeling that I should be able to create something that is borne from me, something with meaning and value.

So I keep trying.

I conjure up word play in silly stories, blast out blog posts, tinker with web pages, play with photography.

None of it sticks.

But that’s ok.

Every time I try I learn something else, there are no failures, how can there be? I’m not doing any of it for anyone but me, so as judge and jury it is my own counsel that is silently kept. My inner critic happily announces that my latest offering is “not quite good enough”, or “could be better”, and the expectation is set anew.

I wonder how it would be were I to look at something I’ve created and instantly think “yes, that’s good”.

Will I ever know?


Happily imperfect.