Several months have passed since I first endeavored to document music in a new and meaningful way. The project was a partial success, in that it deepened my appreciation of artists and albums that might normally fly under my radar. In the end, that was my goal. I accomplished it.
However, the present context demands that I make a certain distinction between multiple "senses" of the term "accomplished". I am not implying that the task is somehow finished, or that I did an adequate job of it. From the start, I never set out to compile an exhaustive list of music reviews that I could one day check off of some metaphysical "to-do" list. It only means that I made progress to an extent that was personally satisfying.
The discontinuity isn't due to a lack of interest or "change of heart" regarding the importance of that exercise. It was simply due to a condition that I refer to as "writer's fatigue". Said condition doesn't necessarily stem from a lack of inspiration. On the contrary, such periods of time are often punctuated by moments of original thought, and an accompanying desire to put those thoughts into words. The true cause of writer's fatigue (for me, at least) appears to be a combination of depression, ennui, and a certain sense of captivity. In times such as these, the activity of writing no longer provides an escape from the human condition. Rather, it confirms my place in its cyclic web of tedium and eternal recurrence.
As such, the occasional hiatus is a welcome (and altogether necessary) means of adding some levity to a debilitating state of affairs. But more importantly, it prevents me from succumbing to the lure of a most tempting mistress: she of fatalism.
