You've lost faith and you think that I am grossly flattering to you; but how long has your life been? How much do you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not original! It turned out something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no means so base! At least you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went straight to the furthest point at one bound...I only believe you have a long life ahead of you. I know you that you take all my words now for a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them after. They may be of use some time. That's why I speak.

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

Creativity has been springing up all day, making it impatiently difficult for me to hone in on a specified topic. I feel as though I could follow a multitude of diverse topics to their fullest potential, and never be disappointed. Yet there is a conundrum in the midst of this session, where do I begin?

It is simple and frugal, yet considerably vast and void. This is the contradiction in my procrastination is where do I begin writing? It becomes so stifling and I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated with the results as I cannot pick up the pen and begin a draft. Or I find that I am so unhappy with the initial draft and decide that it is something that cannot be settled upon. If I follow this venue, I will destroy countless works because of the expectations I place upon my art. It becomes progressively more difficult to create and maintain a satisfied motivation when what is thought of, is then expounded upon. 

Truthfully, it is the lingering notion of being unsatisfied. A desire that there is so much more there, and the sentiment that I can become much more eloquent and less understated. Sadly, this becomes the vice that holds back my voice. 

The lingering question is still is this writing me?

And if that can be answered with a 'yes,' then can I create and be content with the creation?