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           I could never be satisfied with anything I did. I tried—I really did, but no matter what, there was always that feeling in the pit of my stomach that I couldn’t erase. That there was something wrong, something missing, that it wasn’t good enough. And I had started to believe that nothing I could ever do would be good enough. The vivid, picturesque images that bloomed in my head always came out seeming incomplete on paper, shadows of what they could be. I lacked the ability to bring my imagination to reality, so they remained nothing more than dreams.  

          The tip of my pencil stood halted at the paper. As usual, I couldn’t think of a satisfying way to paint the picture that I envisioned. My mind was actively scouring for ways to frame the story I wanted to tell. I would think of something, my pencil hovering around the paper as I prepared to bring my thoughts to life, but then I’d realize that no, this wouldn’t work, that it wouldn’t get into the heart of what I truly wanted to say. And then, I’d move onto the next idea briefly before realizing that that one too was riddled with holes and flaws. This cycle went on and on and on. Even after hours, the paper was disappointingly bare, causing me to bite my lip in frustration. If only I could just do this, do it the way it seemed to come so naturally to other people. If only I’d been born with a little more talent. If only… if only I had been perfect. Having accomplished nothing, I dropped the pencil onto the desk and left the room. 

          I stopped trying after that. Why even bother when it would’ve led to the same depressing result? Instead, I used the time I’d previously devoted to developing my craft to lay aimlessly in bed, cursing myself for not being good enough. And before I knew it, it had been months since I had ever picked up a pencil.  

          But then one day, I thought back to when I was a child. Back then, I would just create things… simply because I enjoyed doing so. It never mattered how good it was, or what other people thought of it, and concepts such as ‘perfection’ had never been a concern to me. I liked it, and that was all that mattered. When had that stopped being enough for me? 

          That day, I went back to my desk, and picked up my pencil. I discarded any thoughts related to things like quality or perfection. There was a story I wanted to tell, and I would do that. It wasn’t easy, of course—the negative thoughts crept up in the back of my mind, impeding my progress. But eventually, I was able to set into a rhythm, and after many long hours, I had finally, finally finished. 

          I looked over my artwork. It wasn’t perfect—there was quite some evident flaws here and there. But that didn’t bother me as much as it would’ve in the past. It might’ve been accurate to say that it didn’t bother me at all. With all my heart, I loved it. It was me, mine, my creation, and that was more than enough.