Just sitting in front of an iPad, just holding a phone, just laying my hands on a keyboard — in those moments I have so many more creative possibilities than anyone a generation ago.

I could take tremendous photos. Edit videos. Make music. Write anything that comes to mind, and have it automatically checked for typos, maybe even edited with AI.

So much potential, so much power.

And so much inflow, too. Such a flood of information and stimulation flowing in the other direction, from the device to me. All of these people who got there first, who already took the time to write and draw and take photos, who dedicated entire lives to perfecting a craft and getting their message across. Who are smarter, faster, younger, more connected, more beautiful, more authentic.

This imbalance is joined by a type of scarcity we all experience: Time. Ars longa, vita brevis.

It's a trio of tension. The obvious thing to do is to forget about it. Just zone out, surf the stream of dopamine. Odds are anything that effortlessly flows over the wire into my brain is better than what I could come up with on my own, tonight, today. More polished. More impactful. And certainly easier, as far as I'm concerned.

This is, of course, wrong. But it's a paradox that comes with these powerful tools: They make creation easier than ever, but they also make it easier than ever to feel insignificant, to be overwhelmed by the existing scale and quality of creation.

So digital tools shift the difficulty. Rather than eliminate it, they morph it.

Creation was always something one did against the odds. That doesn't change, even with all the modern tools.

Today, Project Halfmoon is out. It won't make art for you. But I hope it will help.