Yes, I know I stated that I don't have writer's block, but what the heck, this seems appropriate anyway:

I look at you, and you look at me, and deep in our hearts know it,
That you weren't much of a muse, but then I wasn't much of a poet

By that Australian marvel Nick Cave, from a song about writer's block ("There She Goes, My Beautiful World"). I suppose what makes it even more appropriate is the fact that tomorrow is the start of another potentially torturous year at university, an event which in the past has resulted in a mad spewing of musings on how quickly time passes, the meaning of it all, the lament for the loss of freedom, and what have you. But today, I've got nothing for you. I don't know whether this is the result of apathy or contentment.

It's almost time to sink into the final sleep of these holidays, which has made me feel obliged to remark about what a strange period of time it's been. I vividly remember the sheer disgust and anger I felt towards the end of November, with a seemingly endless barrage of problems and worries being thrown my way. In many ways, I think I knew that there was bound to be some sort of mass exodus of emotion, and it turned out to be an implosion of sorts. All thanks to the trip. It's more than a month now since I returned to this strange land, and thinking again about the subtle shades of beauty that revealed themselves back home makes me believe that I think I would have gone crazy had I not reconnected with the world, and more importantly, myself.

What is this mystical nonsense I'm going on about? I wish I were a better writer that I could explain what I mean. I was quite enamoured with Herman Hesse's writing at some point in these holidays, because he seemed to know exactly what I mean, only he managed to express his thoughts in a most elegant fashion. The copy of Narziss And Goldmund I have is an old Penguin Classics version, with browning pages. I'm glad I didn't have a newer version, because the condition of the book just fit in so perfectly with the content. All the while through, I felt as though I was reading some ancient parchment, and in a very personal sense I was. I suppose I needed to read something like that, to affirm some belief that there's hope for the world, that there is something that can triumph over all the misery and pain.

Back to the topic of my mystical nonsense (now a favourite phrase of mine), I actually don't think that being a better writer would help me very much in expressing myself. By nature, I'm rather reserved in how much I'm willing to share, even to an anonymous mass-audience (!). The things I experienced, the thoughts and musings, they're all too intensely personal for me to want to share. To put it in some perspective, there are moments which I can quite safely say I'll remember for a long time as being times where I saved myself (from spiralling into insanity). I originally thought I'd have quite a few posts heralding my miraculous recovery, but instead since my return this blog has been relatively low-key and quiet. I wouldn't have it any other way though, gentle reader. At one point I still remember clearly, I looked to Lou Reed for inspiration, and found it: "In a world that seems mad, all the dancers seem sad / Heavenly arms, reach out to me", and in a way that sums it all up really (was that even vaguer?).

But it wasn't all roses these past few months, and indeed I'm glad that I was able to see that life doesn't exist at either extreme even in the heights of my existential depression. I remember one incident in particular where I was truly stunned by how grey and vague situations can get; how judgement should always be suspended to the very end! At the time, I don't think I appreciated it very much, indeed it only served to make me all the more unhinged. But in hindsight, I think it was an important lesson that I needed to be reacquainted with. In fact, it revealed a seriously troubling flaw in the way I sometimes think of people. Forgive me for being rather coy about the specifics, but such things are rather private, and I don't think it appropriate to share them here.

On the whole, it was interesting time to be sure. I started off finding myself getting depressed with Jim Morrison ("All our lives we sweat and save / Building for a shallow grave"), and have ended up more or less content, with a belief that there's hope for us all. It's funny that I happened to quote Nick Cave earlier this morning, because there's something else of his that seems appropriate to this little lecture: "He said, that in the end it is beauty / That is going to save the world". I couldn't have put it better myself.