Periodically, through the 5+ years I've kept this blog, I've stopped to ask "Wait on, why do I keep writing here?". This is usually done in extremely arid periods for my creative side, where I wonder whether I'll ever be able to write anything meaningful again. The truly devoted reader will also remember posts that attempt to subsequently answer this question, which are usually along the lines of "As long as there is the capacity to feel a connection to something out of the mundane and ordinary, the desire to write will accompany it naturally". Does that mean the periods where I write nothing are filled with sweet nuthins? I don't think so. I think it's just that chronicling every such event is, firstly, infeasible, but also can lead to the chronicling overshadowing the living. There's the classic xkcd comic about going on a beautiful trek only to think about what a good blog post it will make; that, I think, is the danger.

I assume that there is going to be a time when I decide to quit while I'm ahead, and I wonder what, if anything, I will discover about myself looking back. I find some of my older writings quite painful to look at, not just because of their content. I sometimes worry that the undesirable elements that manifested them - the blackness of four years ago - still have some capacity to arise. The positive? I think the environment we create can help offset these inner demons, to quell them to some extent. I don't know if simply having put these demons to the page is enough to fully conquer them, but at least it gives one a clearer sense of what the enemy is.

Sometimes I don't like my writing, and wonder why I project the image I invariably do with a lot of my work. I am also a bit disappointed that I've actually noted in specific terms how I can improve, but putting it into practise has proven to be a difficult task, it would seem. Maybe it's time to close shop altogether!?!

Sometimes I think it impossibly strange, and impossibly funny, that a non-trivial amount of the writings here are attempts at verses. I don't know if I can give you any explanation as to why I feel like making such attempts, especially given how dissatisfied I usually end up with them. Yes, there have been times when I have looked back on something and felt glad that I wrote it (by which I mean I did not feel embarassed reading it again, and I did not feel like it was obviously bad!), but I would have to say that by and large, I am left feeling quite sheepish with most of what I write.

Given how little poetry I read, I really do wonder where I get the inspiration to put my thoughts into this particular form of expression. I can excuse my prose seeing as how I do still read books from time to time, but the poetry? I suppose it shows in the material - I can't say that they display any sort of finesse or well-honed style. And yet, I somehow do not feel overwhelmingly embarassed about most of them, which I suppose means that they are, at best, mediocre.

Sometimes, of course, I wonder why I bother thinking so much about such things; I say "Leave the poor lad be, let him express himself, pedestrian though it may be!". And of course, it doesn't really matter, but still, I suppose it is interesting because I can't quite pin down the motivation of this habit of mine. While I can try to explain its origins, its continuation is a mystery!

Who knows, perhaps they are my attempts at songwriting - the harsh street poetry of the modern day! Maybe in a few years my mode of discourse will become radical, experimental songs that eschew conventional verse-chorus structure and start a new branch of songwriting...!

There might be others like me, but I doubt it; most people with blogs either seem to have no end to the amount of things they can write about, or else choose to abruptly end without any concern. The former is beyond me, and so I seem to be fixated with avoiding the latter fate, out of some quaint sense of loyalty to the blog itself (which, incidentally, is now three years old). I don't even want to think about how many times I've written these meta-posts, because it does not matter. Each one has been relevant, if uninteresting (even to me). It does beg the question of why I should write it at all, but again, it is as if the blog demands it...

The past year was pretty poor in terms of posting, and I have wanted to make it better. But try as I might, I cannot conjure up anything of interest, fictional or otherwise. My quality-control filter has become far harsher, and I reject a lot more than I used to. I suppose that is good, but I cannot help but feel as though I am on the slow path to a quiet exit. Not that the world will realize; after all, I have effectively put off most readers by my idiosyncracy, not to mention my irregularity.

'Tis a weird sort of thing, this creation of mine. I wonder what can be gleaned from it when I am not writing fiction, which is a rarity these days. The veil I use to cover the true events from my life is so thick that there are now writings that I myself cannot decipher. The events and memories they entail have long slipped away into the recesses of my mind, and now they are inseparable from fiction. I think that is a sad fate, for no doubt there was something in them if they were able to prompt a post from me (especially given how lax I seem to be in writing anything at all).

I half thought of hanging up my boots here and now - what better time than the start of a new year to do away with the baggage of years gone by? I am not quite sure what has stopped me; some silly belief that there will somehow be another glorious patch as there was this time last year. Regardless, I suppose that means I am not over and done with it just yet. The future's uncertain and the end is always near!

I remember now the motivation for the blog's first title; a chance reacquaintance with the 'Dead's Anthem To Beauty reminded me of "Hunter", as he is called*, and his words that, to me, were written both yesterday, five years ago, and possibly ever since I care to remember.

But I remember also why I had to change the title, for to use Hunter's words was doing a disservice to him. At one point I did have dreams of writing with an eloquence that I suppose is implicit in, say, "Ripple", but nowadays I think this is a tad fanciful! Now, I don't imagine Paul McCartney would be particularly happy with me using one of his lines, but I suppose there isn't as much of a symbolic meaning to them!

* Incidentally, Brian Eno was also called simply "Eno" in the Roxys.

To carry on from the last post, I think sometimes that as long as I maintain my demure, there will be scope for posting. It seems as though there is no end to the trivial (and the magical) that is worthy of some pithy musing, but the question is simply when it starts to get a bit repetitive. For instance, I overheard something W said today; or to be precise, I noticed certain glances in my direction, followed by some comment that elicited a few laughs. I know he doesn't mean any harm, but it did cause me to privately mutter, and think of an appropriate rebuke. It was rather ineffectual, mind you, thinking of saying something biting and caustic, but merely sitting there silently, taking the slights, but that is the way it goes. Anyhow, it made me think that as long as there are situations like this, there will be provokations that make me want to express something here. Unfortunately, that something is usually not particularly interesting, seeing as how it is hopelessly of its time. In a few days, a week, certainly a month, it loses all perspective and scope, and becomes like a hazy dream half-remembered, which one cannot deem as being real or not. But I suppose these things are required, whether publicly let out or not; at least, they are probably required for those given to only modest talents in writing (I trust it is easy enough to guess who I refer to)! So maybe my thoughts about a retirement were a tad premature, but I do still worry about whether I will reach a stage where I have literally nothing to say. Till then, I suppose there will be plenty of posts like this. This one probably does not possess a great deal of objective worth, but like W's comment, it is harmless enough.

I've started to think about where this blog is going, and the answer is, at the moment anyway, not anywhere in particular. I think I ran into the same problem last year, where the only thing I was writing about was music, but I'm not quite prepared to give it all up and move to last.fm. Truth be told, the majority of journals there are little more than "My favourite songs" or "My mainstream rating", which are fine for an entertaining read, but do leave you feeling a little weary after a while (as opposed to my brilliant writing of late). Perhaps it's because my reading has stagnated yet again; I still harbour hopes of continuing writing, but I should note that at this present time, it is the farthest thing from my mind. Of course, a little perspective never hurt, nor did a little time off. So here's to the next music-related post!