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Of the Ruin of Beleriand

I have been pondering over what to write; should it something that rhymes, one that dazzles with its subtlety or something like what I am writing right now. It's a difficult choice to be made under most circumstances, for there are some when One feels the need to write something decided in advance and in haste, not in the likeness of Shadowfax, which was steered by the wisest of the Maiar in the later days; ergo, making it replete. Anyway...

Beleriand is the land where things have been etched, the realm of reveries, and the alternative to Highbury; the precise selection from the three is left to the stark (let us assume it's stark) imagination of readers and scorners. I do care who, but let us say that I "do not care". After all, it is my place to say what I want. The period of solace is rather ephemeral and a path to utter discontent. One wonders if there is a path to absolute satiation. Why does One have to wonder so much, why is One so self-obsessed to allude to himself as the One. There are myriad other ones, but the amount of importance they are bestowed with is evident from the small 'o' in "ones". How comfortably conceited of him to write all of this, be self-contemptuous and consider oneself realistic. The foolishness seems to continue and the end appears not. Digressing from the crux of the moment, can a thing be 'inexorably ineffable'? I think not. Then why is it that I feel that there should be something like it, maybe in philosophical terms of the ignorant. They can make anything intellectually marvelous by making it sound esoteric and "artistic".

I suppose it is difficult to fathom how, but all of the above-written reminds me of a recent event at the Emirates Stadium. Liverpool played badly and still made Arsenal look appalling, which indeed seems to be the case. I cannot not feel for Arsene Wenger, and his views and adherence to a line of thought. He and the club certainly deserve better by a long-shot.

As we approach the end of this, let us say that there lies a pile of stuff in the caverns of Utumno, which is conspicuous in the way that it is conspicuous enough to be mentioned. It is in those caves and lairs that beings and imperceptible entities were mutilated in Olden days, and it marks the end of all things bright and clear, and this too.


Of the Darkening of Days

As I am writing something after a great many days, I hope to make a decent comeback and make this as eloquent as it may be made. One great thing about the whole time I have spent away is that, I can type relentlessly without looking at my, or for that matter, anybody else's keyboard. It may be one of the few consolations available to The One when there is naught else to be ineffably 'in revel' about. I have been reading 'The Silmarillion' lately, and it is beautiful. As a matter of fact, I should be reading it right now, but I am not. The point is, I have a considerable amount to be done, shenanigans to be rueful about, rubbish to write (as I am doing right now), but I am too lazy to not be phony. I do not see much sense in what I am writing, it is but a convoluted expression of the quagmires I behold in my day-to-day life; it is much the same with everyone. Who knows, they may all have their own blogs where they write posts which come to the attention of no one. Or maybe not; we'll never know....

which brings to One's attention the earlier resolve that One had, of being eloquent. That surely went to perdition. The other Ones may often wonder how The One contrives to be all that he intends to; ergo, let him take center-stage to present to you the coveted answer. The desired aurora is acquired by the constant use of third person, with particular attention to 'One', indulgence in the expression of the so-called uncommon constructions, a feeling of perpetual discontent and a fake sense of idiosyncrasies; which in turn, also reminds me to mention the all important self-condescension. Ah! the cauldron of all the self-belief One may desire. Blah Blah Blah. I have got to go.