I’ve spent most of my life feeling like my work, my art, my writing, my ideas, my music, all of my creations–are unpresentable.
I compare my works-in-progress to the finished works of my favorite artists. And of course, my works pale in comparison.
My works are a mess of many messes.
But they’re not for nothing.
There’s an inner-joy.
Creation is simple. But creation with the intent for a presentable outcome, it feels damn near impossible.
I’ve never been satisfied with the results.
Nevertheless, the journey is never not enlightening.