The Evidence of Creation

What joy hath man like that of a thing well made?
In this I come to sympathize with God quite a bit. For, despite the flaws of one's creation, the little imperfections which, in direct contradiction to all of our hard work and effort, undermine the efficacy of the thing created, there is also joy and love. To marvel at the finished manuscript, which but a few short months earlier had been nothing but a blank slate merely awaiting the whims of the mind which shaped it, or to steadily increase the appreciation one feels for a song composed or a painting dried, these are the true pay-offs of those who would deem themselves Creators. You were nothing, but now, through me, you have come into existence, hardly perfect yet a testament to my vision all the same.
The blank slate of my ideas is like an etch-a-sketch of creative outlet, ever filled only to be shaken dry and begun again.
And of thee, blank slate, I say this:

In honor of these thoughts I call my own
I make of thee the things I've never shown
Such deep dementia settled in my mind
Untrue recipients will never find
The words I've scribbled out on parchment hence
My inner thoughts bereaved of common sense
And if such thoughts on paper do not take
Make of my humble livelihood a fake
For if I could but once discern the truth
'Twould validate the foibles of my youth
That this is not the case would only seem
Invalidate the truths I've dared to dream...

But that remains to be seen, and the Creator in me, the artist, strives always toward betterment in hopes that one day, just once, I will look upon my work and not be dismayed by anything, but wholly and utterly rejoice.
Yet this I fear, for attaining perfection sheds ill-light on any future attempts at such endeavors.
Yet let not perfection dissuade us from itself, for unattainable though it surely seems, and daunting though it surely is, is that not, in truth, the indefinable purpose of life?
Let us think on this a while...
Love,
~Codaniel~