Perfectionism is a butterfly pinned by a needle and placed under glass.
It is a dried flower pressed between the pages of a book: touch it, and it crumbles into dust.
Your thoughts scatter like living butterflies. You can only try to describe them in the moment while they are still fluttering. Or you can catch them, kill them, and begin the dissection. But upon closer inspection, the butterfly no longer seems so bright. The powder from its wings rubs off onto your fingers, and it no longer brings any joy.
Value your thoughts and images. Do not try to reshape them. It's better for them to be crooked and imperfect, yet alive and real. That is what you can write right now.
With practice, you will learn to capture the thought more precisely β without killing it.
