Of Legendary Nativity

Christmas has come to wash over me in various celebrations, most of them with the ultimate aim to produce excuses for exacerbated indulgement, and it is with a tinge of joy that I look over this year's harvest of gifts and, ah, tributes, and realize that there is a lot of literature among it. It is, however, with a contrasting tinge of sadness that I see that my life has led to a neglect of this interest. No, I suppose that is not true; it is merely the blog that has suffered the most. I cannot reminisce whence the initial dismotivation rose, be it my own dissatisfaction with what I wrote, or through the worsened situation in the rest of life.

Yet, however, as I stride through the holidays, my desk littered with everything from "The World in Figures 2009", of The Economist, to Saturated Fats, of McCoy's, I ravage through my bookmarks in an uncharacteristically glum Christmas Day evening and find multitudes of information that have not been even viewed lately. That includes blogs that I have not read, forums that I have not lurked, sites not visited and alternate lives not lived.

I doubt the new year is here to present me with a new, lighter life; to the contrary, what little of it I have been shown seems to indicate that life will only be further burden and inconveniences. If anything, my promise for this year ought to quite simply promise laziness and inactivity; for if anything, my life will in any short run not be embettered by things I find exhausting. Exhaustion is already at the top of my list of symptoms, and I fear that shall I contract any more, I'll be eligible for a job as a study example at the Royal Academy of Medicine.

I do have as a slight aim to produce at least a rough draft of something short during the short period that I'm actually free just over winter. Yet inspiration has failed to arise, and the few moments that I do feel motivated to do it seem not in conjunction with the times that I do actually have an idea. I was pondering whether to simply build a method, just a route of ways to settle down the loose thoughts and pierce through that wall of abstracts, the nigh impenetrable barrier that stands between me and concrete concepts. I have no idea what shape such a method would take, however, and I suppose it is just a matter of experience. 

It strikes me that much of what I have written is of little sense, that much of it lacks that underlying tone of quality. I'll probably write some new stuff that goes along other lines. Yet I ask myself, where is it sane to go? Having not established an ambition and a target as to where to go with the project anyway, it's awfully hard to decide and define the types of content that will be found on it. So, in that sense, I think I'll just plain go on, write as I wish, wherever that takes me.

And I expect it's for times like these that I sketched, in a page of my notebook, the maxim, "Hour by hour, resolve firmly, to do what comes at hand, day to day, with correct and natural dignity." Yet the inappropriateness of young men to utter maxims is what I will cover next.

Or perhaps I shall not. I am yet unsure.