Tired and Exhausted.

Acerbic melodies. Melancholic solitude. Unrequited emotions.

These epitomized in a nutshell the trajectory of this entire blog. Angst-filled. Emotionally-driven. It stood witness to an entrenched paranoia that I have gone through for the past two years. It chronicled the intensity of each moment that outlined my very definition. Each moment, each defining milieu, was placed in adjacent with a unique kind of emotion, profound perhaps although intolerant. The fusion of each moment and each emotion were captured in words, filled with adjectives to bolster the description and complicated with adverbs to distil the narration. The purpose was to extract the exact emotion and to pin down the precise value (if there is) of each undulating experience. The purpose was to intensify the language without necessarily having to exaggerata each moment, each emotion.

But then, words and language still fall short of expectation. They cannot contain in themselves, the real and the extant derivation of the experiences. They remain incomplete and imperfect, though concedingly, not all irrelevant. They dither and deconstruct themselves in face of the unique varieties of a reader’s experience. They may touch and pierce into a portion of a reader’s channels of experiential memories and find relevance in it, but they are not adequate perhaps not even satisfactory to create some definitive parallelism.

The blogger, however, does not claim to generalize nor claim truths but only to make sense of the world, of his world, by putting into a concoction of words his emotions and experiences. He concedes that truths are relative and that subscription to such truths must be accompanied with responsibility, with utmost desire to face each destined consequence.

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Acerbic melodies. Melancholic solitude. Unrequited emotions.

These define in vivid details the remnants of this blog. And for the previous cycles of days and nights, I find myself weary. I can no longer write. I am torn by the thought of not having the capacity to turn each real moment into a captured transcription. I sulk in irritation over the thought that my interest in the writing craft began to loaf. I am beginning to waver.

But it dawned upon me that I have grown tired and exhausted of acerbic melodies, of melancholic solitude, and of unrequited emotions. I finally realized that I have been rambling almost the same pieces of emotion over and over again, and now they reverberate in a tone hazardous to the senses. I am already drained from ranting. The saturation point is already maximized.

I needed a shift of perspective and a lifting of spirit.