I Made A Copy.

My words don't do my ideas justice.

I have ideas, we all do, and we all have a story we have to tell, but we can't get out. It's our Moby Dick, and we're Ahab, pushing and pushing for that story to be captured but ultimately dying in the final moments of victory. We need that story to be unattainable, else we wouldn't have the drive to move forward.

Is that true?

Maybe.

I have a story in my head. have done for a year or so now, and I just can't get it out. I have it mapped, in my head, but putting pen to pencil or finger to keyboard would dilute it. I wish I could distill it, from my mind, into a chalice of some sort, have it be perfect and untouched by my inability to deliver upon it. A story that's told badly is like some aborted foetus, and I don't that. Some miscarried half thing. Boo to that. Boo. I want perfection.

So that's why I don't write my idea. I need time. And maybe I need to be prepared to die for it.