There's something about opening a bottle of colour - knowing that any way it spills won't spell A-R-T at your hands. let's call it the audacity of trying, and move on.
Same thing for a lump of clay - lying in front of you, waiting for creative violence, but you know that your thoughts don't have fingers, your ideas don't have arms. let's call it the pointlessness of wishing and move on.
Don't look at the camera - the eager buttons waiting, glinting in the hope of your touch a lens waiting to be turned - knowing that your eye can never translate your sight into art, your vision will never equal an image. let's call it the imperfection of waiting, and move on.
My last hope is a pen. my fingers rush over it, finding solace in known grooves where my fingers have settled time and again. i call it the comfort of a story.