Yes, unfortunately for you, the author has been reading Saramago again, and, no, he is deeply sorry to admit, but he cannot help himself.

Okay, so perhaps blogging everyday wasn't such a great idea, after all, and I'm not saying that just because I missed another day, but also because, well, when I really think about it, for the most part, nothing much differentiates each day of my existence from the other but tiny fluctuations in the only trajectory allowed by the third law of thermodynamics, a death spiral of mediocrity ending in absolute zero. 

Well, perhaps I exaggerate a bit, sometimes the upward fluctuations can be uplifting enough to temporarily dull the steady ache of being, like how fifteen minutes of fireworks can make people forget for the moment that no matter how high their hopes are, changes for the better will always be more difficult than changes for the worse, and that someone always has to clean up the resulting debris, which is not to say that all debris is worthless, because while some debris represents nothing but necessary labor, other debris may well represent the shell of something once great from which that something may be, even if reconstruction is impossible, at least appreciated one last time.

In any case, I do not think I am depressed, nor am I feeling down, nor am I in any emotional state but regret-tinged acceptance, it must be just that, on those unfortunate occasions when the weather conspires with laziness and introspection and my mental circumstances, regret and frustration are stained and stand out much too clearly for my liking or for anybody's liking, I might venture, because, we need to face it, only those strong enough of will or blessed enough by the supernatural can realistically hope to gain anything from prolonged self-interrogation, and for the rest of us, fuddlers and befuddled all, what remains is simple to say but not always to do, which is, in a word, persist. Like hope.