/lit/ - Literature

I am thinking how the creative process has been nothing but a tragedy. I imagine the vague-ideological concept of the ‘perfect thing’ in which a person can think of thinking of; a book, a movie, a society, and so on, and it’s actually the vagueness of the concept of the thing’s perfection which makes it extraordinary, because once you actualize the concept it becomes real; you can see it right in front of you, can experience its arraying detail, and what happens is that the vagueness of the ideological desire of the thing’s perfectness is now gone—by making it real you have removed the one thing that made it so extraordinary in the first place—and so perhaps one of the greatest tragedies in life is that the creator, no matter how small of a perfectionist he or she is, will never actually achieve the ultimate object of desire which kept them creating in the first place, because any attempt at creating the utopianist-object of desire results in something that can not contain the mysticality of enigmatic nebulousness which can only be found in the pre-actualized vagueness of the unformed thing, and the potentiality of the thing will always be more appealing than any final actualization.