The Melancholy

I was listening to Sinead O'Connor's cover of Sacrifice (originally by Elton John) and I suddenly start thinking of several things. My memories dig out deep deep histories of the 80's and 90's when we were young, then fast forward to the near future, then back to the present where I saw myself typing these thoughts. I felt happy but not eager. I never was. I'm still in this state of "waiting for inspiration to come", not eager to move, but hey I am sure that this is not some kind of a depressive affliction.

It's been a while. Consider this.

This writing made a promise. This writing was looking for accomplishments. This writing was forgotten. This promise was broken. Then I wasn't writing anymore. The writings were handwritten on a special book I always bring since good random thoughts come on a random place and time. (I am so carried away by Sinead O'Connor's voice, shit). Then the book was almost halfway and I've made about eight articles and two shortstories (one of it was published here, introduction only). That was an accomplishment I think. With this determination of finishing the book, I made a promise that once completed, I'll hand it to everyone, since no one had ever read all of the stories except me.

Halfway, things changed. I lost the determination. Good random thoughts never came. I am so occupied by several things. The melancholic who tries to be choleric became more melancholic. The humor in the writings changed. Reality came. I've learned that you can never change your point of views in life, by just trying to write "Hell, life is so beautiful, hallelujah!" And yes, I can write the best articles of depression, tragedy and cruelty of this world, and themes like "the person you looked up to are the persons who always let you down", "the painful thing in friendship is when all that is left are memories" and so so.

I kept the book. Read it several times before I lost it. I never cared.

Then I stopped writing.