And there goes 2020

 Good actual riddance

That's a wrap folk, 2020 is over and if you're reading this than I guess you actually made it. Not to come across as a broken record or anything; but what an absolute dump of a year that I never want to go through again. Yeah, this is pretty much going to be a winddown blog here so you can go ahead and skip on out if you're looking for something more gaming focused. I've decided to give myself a break and have a blog just talking about me, somewhat similar to what I did last year, and that ironically ends up taking a bit more effort because I'm a totally backwards mess, as can likely be inferred. That being said this is technically a blog dedicated to gaming so I guess I can say; this was a decent year for gaming for the most part but there were just a few too many disappointments for me to really sing praises. Also, I just realised that Demon Souls apparently didn't make it into the Game Awards; what was that about?

Oh, but before I start it's customary that I warn you how when I rant off the cuff like this I don't come back for spell checking or editing. When I first did one of these I gabbed about how it was for 'integrities sake' or some such rot, but in reality this is my relaxation blog and I don't want to put too much thought or effort into it. (IS that so much to ask? I only get like, 2 of these every 3 months or so, let me have my laziness) Also, all illusions of professional attitudes or form tend to go out of the window, with the exception of one curtsey that I've remarkably managed to keep for the entire length of this blog but I'll let you guess what that is. Not for any grand reason of preserving the mystery, but because I'm treating this like a Jinx; if I don't say it I won't end up accidentally doing it 5 weeks from now.

Now that's done I might as well ask you how your past 12 months were, because mine were pretty crummy. Being stuck down here in England on the outskirts of the capital meant that I was very much in the line of fire for every single lockdown, regulation and restriction which this pandemic has warranted, including the heavy lockdown for Christmas which was installed just a week before the fact. The only part of that which didn't fall upon me like a ton of bricks was the break of social contact because, as I hardly make effort in hiding, I'm not really blessed in that department anyway. (Plus it means that my family didn't get to throw their numerous annoying parties this year. They only got to throw one.) But that being said, I've still had to go out into public every single day of this year just as part of my natural day-to-day, and if I hadn't already come to terms with my own death this year would have been the thing to set me right.

And I know; why would I worry, as long as all the correct precautions are taken and nothing stupid is down I should be fine. But knowing myself and how things tend to pan out, I wouldn't be surprised if I managed to breath in every rogue particle for a 5 mile radius, it's just the sort of luck I deserve. In fact, what really confuddles me isn't the risk nor the concerns that should be raised by such, but the absolute lack of an impact it's really had on me. Maybe that's because, like I said, I've had to go out every day this year so I adapted to things rather rapidly; but seeing the amount of carnage and chaos this virus has wrought on a social level, as well as the thousands of lives it's ended, hasn't really moved me any. I'd like to say it's because I'm numb, but I think that a selfish part of me just doesn't care about all of that because it's not happening to me. It's one of those nagging things that I can't stand about myself, I feel like the sort of person always in it for themselves.

For all the good that's done for me. If 2019 was a year of roundabouts for me than 2020 was a heelturn back to nothing, because I feel like I'm even more empty handed than I've ever been. I don't like to get too personal, or at least not with specifics about my life, but let's just say that in terms of a career I've had little more than a few little jobs now and then with a whole lot of existential dread in the meantime. I'm far past the days of panic attacks in the local parks that would have me aimlessly wondering around for hours on end, but I can't help but think the energetic mania which I deploy to get through my day-to-day, and write this blog, is faltering more and more. For a writer, even an amateur one, it seems absurd to say; but I still can't quite name what it is that I feel like I'm missing without being vauge and general. I'm missing motivation, but motivation to do what? I want to desire to do something, but what should I desire to do?

When it comes around to this blog I'm happy to say that I have no such delusions. I sometimes wonder if this daily pace is sustainable, and I'm pretty sure it is not, but I find coming to write this one of the easier things in my life. Although perhaps that there is a problem. If I'm not wrenching my very heart from my chest to put this down every single day than am I really living? Probably not, and if this were my career I'd call that a serious problem and start working on it. But as I write in a limited capacity to a limited audience, I don't think it's anything I need to analyse too hard. Nor do I think myself necessary to settle into a niche, which is why you'll sometimes see a spate of commentary blogs in a row and sometimes more creative endeavours strung together. I just write how the mood takes me and see what turns up. I'm happy with it and until some feedback says otherwise I'll continue pace.

But that doesn't mean I don't want to do anything more. I'm not sure if I'd go so far as to call writing my passion, because I haven't genuinely felt passionate about something for as long as I can remember. I may have never felt that way. Writing is still the one arguable-talent that I know I posses and it comes somewhat easily to me. As to the actual talent of that skill. Debatable. Pretty much none existent. But where I'm at right now I don't really find myself caring to any great degree and maybe that's exactly what I should feel. I mean, pressures to perform and conjure great works seem like the barriers of real authors, but for some nobody on the Internet; heck, who cares what I write as long as it's published. I didn't actually expect this little indirect self therapy to help me through any issues, and I don't believe it has, but I've incidentally nurtured my writing and now I can't stop. Physically, I cannot stop doing this, send help.

In closing, though by all traditional measures I'm a total waste of space who's long overdue for 'taking responsibility', (if you catch my drift) that wave of mania that I ride has kept me afloat and has even lined up a little personal project in front of me. I can't say what is it, because again: Jinx, but what I can say is that it has taken a strangely prominent position in my life right now. I don't much about what the future will hold, but for some reason I know that I cannot move on until this project is complete, and only now am I realising how that sounds like the ominous ramblings of a madman. I promise I'm not going crazy, or at least not in the violent sense. So from the grumble-worthy year of 2020 into the bright horizon of 2021 (and I'll not hear affirmations that the new year will be equally as bad. All who say such are pessimistic cliches who need to switch out their music box, their tune is getting hackneyed) May my confused, probably misspelt, my honestly heartfelt ramble mean something more to you than it does to me. Happy new years.