THE PERFECT MOMENT

There is no perfect moment.

“There is no perfect moment. Moments are special for their essence, but ‘the perfect one’ is a rosy altar where deceit is conceded.”

L'Orchestre de l'Opéra by EDGAR DEGAS

"Write, boy, write!" The dancing stick-with-ink on my table sings to me. It wriggles stiffly on my blank sheet of partially torn but smooth paper, hoping that a firm right hand would hold it and breathe life into it. It wants to be the bridge between its holder and the world—to be deluged by wild and revelational ideas and to present these ideas, in partnership with the script, to the world at large. All of these it desires, and all of these it foresees. But its aspirations would become a truth if and only if, its owner becomes its holder. At this point, you should know that I am the owner but hardly the holder of my pen. In fact, I cautiously tell you that as it stands, my pen isn't even being held by anyone at all! My pen serves the purpose of transferring my thoughts, feelings, and prayers onto vast sheets of paper (the script), before which they are sent to the world to be critiqued, disregarded, blatantly abused, or highly appreciated.

I have been told that it is such a gracious feeling to see your work thriving out there—like an ear of corn when it reaches its blooming season—a gracious feeling indeed when people call you a “master of your craft.” This I have known, but this “gracious feeling” in particular, I have yet to taste. The reason is rather simple; you must have seen it by now—it is because I have not written anything! Pen, paper, ideas—nothing. I have barely even held my pen! An irony for a self-proclaimed "Orwell Penwright!" Why has he not written anything then? Well, it is because he is waiting—still waiting—for the perfect moment. The Perfect Moment: the idea that a thing should not be done until its time is unmistakably ripe. It is the belief that you should not record a verse, practice math, publish a book, or even sell your trade, until such work is perfect and the weather foretells success. The notion suggests that you should not even make an attempt except such work would be perfect. But, how can your work even be perfect without an attempt? How can you make an attempt when “perfection" keeps you waiting and hoping? The idea is hinged on patience—a foolish kind of patience—the foolish kind of patience!

"Wait! Wait! Not now, let the moment avail itself!" That is the voice... Its voice. This is the voice I hear. It is with good cause that I suppose you also hear this voice as well. The voice advises me not to write a thing until I can feel such intense emotions coursing through my veins—an obvious telling that the time is right—it is then that I should write, and hope for utmost success. Now, I do nothing because it is not the right time. And often I ask the voice, "What happens if there be obligations which I ought to fulfill but the occasion does not seem opportune enough? Do I go ahead with these obligations or do I tarry till the occasion appears suitable?" And here, the voice orders me, "Wait!" I ask, "Still wait?" It replies to me, "Wait still."

I wonder, is it the course of action of a stable mind to refuse to do something that you ought to do simply because you do not 'feel' like doing it? A feeling, however, that you do not control. A matter of whether your mind decides to cooperate or not. Therefore, if your mind does not receive that burst of energy that makes it eager to perform an action, you wouldn't do anything—you just wither on the vine. And so because of this, I have slid into unimaginable folly, and I have written nothing while waiting—still waiting—for the "perfect moment." You must see it as it is: an entity—you, me, any of us—with a profound ability, lacking self-drive and willpower, often resorting to ephemeral motivation to get things done. "Utter nonsense."

There are dreams I had as a child, growing up. Dreams that have now been traded for literal dreams! I have to sleep; why not? After all, if I do not “feel” like the time is right to accomplish my dreams, I can wither away for all the world cares. I must wait, mustn't I? Do you see the deluding thoughts that make me go about my day, avoiding all forms of work because they lack that pervasive air of Fortune? But... But what is Fortune? Fortune is the boon of Lady Fortuna. Fortune is the reward of a dice roll. It is fickle but it promises you success if you wait long enough. Simply put, if you wait well, long, and hard enough, Fortune would favor you. No, it would not favor you if you are bold, why? It would favor you if you waited. I wait. All men must wait, I am told. Last week, I read in an article that people who attend to their tasks hastily are more likely to fail, as compared to people who wait until the most opportune moment. Mind you, the name of the publication was Les Ironies Quotidiennes de la Vie—The Daily Ironies of Life. In this piece, it was reported that during these times of waiting, Edgar A. Poe received the inspiration for The Raven, Newton for Gravity, Gutenberg for The Press, and Columbus for America. So why shouldn't I wait? My mind yet deceives me; it tells me that if I forgo the art of being proactive and I imbibe the culture of patient lingering, I would be filled with beautiful inspirations. Inspirations, which would lead to monumental achievements like the apparent discovery of new countries. My mind asks me, "Don't you want to discover new countries?" "Don't tell me you don't want your name to be etched into everlasting greatness."

I want my name to be etched into the history books, for grandeur and not obscurity. So how can this happen? Now I speak without the embellishments of irony. There is no perfect moment. Moments are special for their essence, but "the perfect one" is a rosy altar where deceit is conceded. Only yesterday, I missed yet another deadline for the submission of an essay entry competition. I had known about the essay competition three days into its announcement, but I never felt like writing. I never did. I lingered, hoping that at some point I would receive motivation from whatever source so that I could begin to work on the essay. This “motivation” never came, and so I never participated in the essay competition. Even as I prepare this piece, I certainly do not “feel” like writing, but despite the laws of “le moment parfait” I am writing, I am keeping at it because I know that the perfect moment never comes.

The time is now! Without further ado make for your craft with gallantry; be it brush, paper, anvil, guitar, or camera; use your preferred tool to edge your name onto the pillar of greatness.