This life is a draft of a draft.

As a writer and a thinker, and maybe as a human, I am critical to a fault. All too many of my efforts, imaginings, and relationships have collapsed under the weight of punishing over-analysis and self-defeat.

A younger me drew pride from impossible standards, viewing them as demonstrations of my (surely considerable) abilities. But this was no more than a convenient lie with which to buffer myself from criticism and failure. 

To be paralyzed by an obsession with perfection is an abscess of vanity. This life is but a draft of a draft, and I have been a small-minded, fearful boy. We are born to make and in the end, the makings are all that matter.

So forget yourself in work and build, build like a demon, fashioning a temple of your wastebasket, stacking each crumpled, insufficient effort so the next might sit a little higher and that one day their pinnacle, supported by the entirety of your labor, will tower high above the rim, visible for miles.