I told you I'd make a differance.

It's a difficult decision to make.

I've decided that by the end of this entry, I'll close this blog.

Blogging is a paradoxical activity - one that simultaneously reveals and veils what a person thinks
What you see is a face, a trace of what he or she is - only that it is possible that this trace can take a life of its own, performs itself, and takes over its origin.

But blogging has this other edge that allows me to express what other media fail to. It is a desert that compels me to write; to write like I have never written before. I am grateful, for the many nights that it has accompanied me and convinced me to vomit out the words that clogged up my vessels.

However, blogging assumes that the blogger has something to express, something to present, or something to showcase to the public domain.
I increasingly realise that I don't. I increasingly realise that my words fail me. I am ashamed that I cannot play a single musical instrument. I find music more apt in expressing my thoughts. At the core of my explanation is this thing called the question.
What else can I write? Who am I writing for?
There is nothing in my words that lead you or I to me.

These words, will remain here as monuments of things past. When Proust left his words, I do not believe he left his soul behind. When Socrates wrote nothing, I believe he left his spirit behind.
This spirit I call absolute question.
When there is no first-hand account of yourself - in some sense, you live on.
People repeat us, misguided, repressed, but you live in ways you can never imagine.
Memories shouldn't be written out.
It's murdering the moment.
It's giving birth to new moments.
And I'm uncomfortable with words.
Because they are published here, I somehow take responsibility for my words.
I'm not Socrates. I don't go around striking dialectical conversations.
I can't be a Socrates. My words are like my sins. I can't stop writing. I regret that I can't be a Socratic.

But instead of writing here, I've decided to write somewhere else. Somewhere I can have this private conversations with myself and the spirits around. It doesn't have to be a blog.

In a way, it is my violent resistance to stop being the present I. There is something liberating and free about writing. There are slippages you cannot control. There are interpretations you cannot prevent. Therefore, the only way to stop being the many I-s out there, I have to remove myself, absolutely.
Perhaps, this in itself produces a new trace. A trace that haunts us. A reminder of how obscure and romantic a person I presented myself to be here. (and melancholic). Truth is, I can be exact opposite of these descriptors if the situation calls for. Or can I?
The dark world where I face God, is a world that I refuse to reveal. This is as far as I go to describe it. Darkness. Right now, I'm making the conscious decision to pursue that path. Therefore, whatever here is a disturbance, a distraction, a wayward detour that must end someday. Now is the time. Each time I venture to end, it seems to get shorter. This must be the fourth blog I will close. And I realise that each closure is like a mark of a change. An often drastic one.
I was an absolutely ignorant idealist in my first blog.
I was a romantic, melancholic emo-boy in my next.
I was an aesthetical and ethical contradiction in my previous blog.
And here, this blog, I was a passive nihilist who desired to disappear behind his words - and utterly failed in that task.

I am excited and sad. Excited to find out what I will become. Sad that I have to leave many things behind at this stage. but if I am to follow the doctrine of Kierkegaard, it seems, leaps of faith, movements, stages of selves, are as inevitable as life and death.
Each radical leap is not an absolute change. You don't just shed everything you were. You evolve. Only confession and salvation have that absolute eternal effect. Otherwise, every stage of your life is the maturing of the previous. Nevertheless, it is a radical leap because one is no longer comfortable being a Has-been. One continues to be - being.
But really, who cares about metaphysics here?
The journey that I have taken since young has multiple sad regressive plus excited progressive movements. I am humbled each time.
Continue to humble me, Word.
I just don't write them now. I want to live them.
I sever all connections. with quivering and a deep melancholy. I have never quite expressed what these connections were. But it doesn't matter now. Forgive me, words.

I chopped down the two-year-old trees.
I shall be the clouds.
And you won't find me.

This blog remains as a monument of what had been, of what failed to touch - because they could never do so.