I come close to the end of a year in which I managed to more or less successfully stick to my New Year’s resolution of writing one essay-ish piece and one piece of poetry per week. I never really took the time to reflect on how the activity has affected my writing, and so now, in an attempt to delay the writing of my impending paper, I write this. In certain aspects, this resolution was something that I didn’t necessarily need to stick to at all, and yet I somehow found the time to more or less get all of the necessary works produced in a timely fashion. Looking back on what I used to write, I realized that my perspective grew more and more realistic, my tone not quite as lyrical as before, and my views not quite as naïve as they previously were. This is the consequence of change; however, I’m not certain that I like the change. I enjoyed writing the effusive, overly eloquent, labyrinthine pieces about certain people that I used to write, no matter how much of a headache they were to read. It seemed like my connection to the language was fuller and more fulfilling back then. Perhaps at the end of the year, I’ll go back and do a reading of all the pieces I wrote this year, and bring out a few of my favorite ones to analyze. I think I would like doing that, and it might give all of the readers of this blog something to consider and measure their own interpretations against. But for now, I write, on and on, into the passing eternity of memory.