Then the most terrible of terrible things happened. The dark tower drew a deep sigh as it bellowed from the deepest trench of it's heart that neither burned nor lived. The ring fell into oblivion of the fire that flowed with the lament issued out of the cries of elves, dwarves, men and wizards, in the wicked labryinth of Mount Doom- where no mortal dream, inspiration, suffering and pain can survive its carnivorous pinnacle of its teeth . This fire had grown over by nurturing on the flesh of them. The only kind that it never tasted was that of a hobbit for it thought them to be too meek to yeild strength and too week to draw swords of brandishing power. And what an iron of an irony destiny speaks- now the only thing that it gets from the smallest hobbit is a finger! (of course, along with its precious ring- so true!)

The Tower falleth!

Chapter I : The Love of The Eye!

Oh what fate I suffer- challenged by the challenged of all!
For all this creature (Hobbit) in this Earth should know
Is to figure out tricky ways to grow tall!

And then they would drink and dance- uncared for a word of the world
Whilst my soul takes refuge, as my body fell loose
When Isildur shaves my arm off... with his aluminium sword!

"Damn" I whistled, for I cursed my food
Devoid of nutrition, my orc cook would cook.

I paid them with salaries,
That matched the ones of the rich
But still they stole my meal...
A great deal of Protein!

But ah! what a day it was...
When the first of all I behold the Galadriel
Alone in her garden- blessed with the sun,
Playing Tournament- Unreal!

Oblivious of the times when Sun yet not born,
When Roses pleased the lover as he touched no thorn,
And clouds bore the colours of the winters time,
And meadows float between the ocean's divide.

But yet behold the gem- before whom I kneel
So distant, so close- oblivious to all
The sole and silent- the beauty, Galadriel.

There was a time- unprotected but unscathed...
Followed then the blowing of the horn,
When soldiers rode the parade
As they caught the glitter of the skies
In their edges of their blades
And castles drowned the mountains to rise...
To form our days- protected but scathed.


The way back from my department is a fifteen minutes walk- which qualifies to be languid- methodically following the directions of signal lights everytime. There are uphill alleys which eventually pours downhill to meet another of his ally of alleys as I see the rise and fall of the sky before me, as if a huge rise and release of the bossom of a heavenly mammal while breathing. And hence everyday, I obtain an exclusive half an hour of self-contemplation, mostly of failures and lessons learnt as a consequence but which is again as if one of those double-starred undergraguate math-exercises, extremely difficult to crack it- then comes failure after much forceful, fierce attempts and when the time for give-up arrives- you feel the whole time was a waste cause it never contributed to your understanding.
Failure loses you as if you were a whisper amidst a tantrum of war-cries.

Have you seen a marathon race in television? Sure you have I guess.
I guess walking the walk on the blue-painted lane of life is something like that I feel. If someone asks me over the phone- "How are things going man?". The inevitable reply that slips through our lips is-"Fine" and then they fall tight closed- like a woman's purse-scarce of content.
And after a fortnight, if the same question comes up... the same answer follows. It is like switching on the TV and find a marathon runner running and then if you turn the TV set on after an hour, you find the same guy running in the same way- may be a bit more tired.

I remember, when the days were such that kept me too young- I found excitement in switching on the lamp- then followed the days when facing a fast-bowler in cricket was an act of defience- then came the days when senses blossomed- started to recognise colours but still strictly categorised into black and white- the bad and the good- then quickly lingered behind, the art of recognition of finer shades- the various forms of grey. It's a pity that our understanding of the affairs of the world is squeezed into the interplay of two shades only.

I stop now, for I feel running out of coherence- as if stranded over the cliff and then flung into a dream where you can swim along the sea to climb the sky... Well instead of me doing that-

It would be wise,
yes it would be wise my dear... my dear love.
To stop our pursuit which feels endless,
And hold each others hands instead.

Editor of The Conspicuous

Here lies a few excerpts from the scribe of one entity who saw it all, but was never mentioned in the account of the Baggins, later translated and compiled by J. R. R. Tolkien. Few say this anonymous was an Orc for the script bore words of the dark tongue. The name of the account, if translated says- "Through the Eyes of the Eye; or when I stopped worrying and loved the Hobbit!".

Incredible it may sound but those who has never seen swords draw and the towers fall, can neither qualify to dismiss it.


Verse 247: 93%fLUsh@#

The Ranger, Strider and eventually the succesor of the throne of the Numenors,
Gondors shine... but...
Ever did you wonder,
The only bane of the Strider?


O Aragon!

Ever did you wonder
Since time immortal
When the days were Elder
Since then rode Aragon,
Son of Arathon
He ever feared to step down
For he was in the slippers of Paragon.
Worn and torn.

*

Verse 451: 90% wAck!

The White Lady, amidst a Labryinth of twisted thought of the Men, Dwarves and of course the Dark Tower, sits in her recluse-

Galadriel , so Unreal!

Fell are those towers
Where once dwelt the Elves
Singing with the lores
And bliss all they bestowed.

Now they flee for the West
Scattered and scorched by the Black -
The hand that killed
And strangled the White.

But still hope remains,
As if a phoenix's last flight
"Galadriel O' Galadriel" - they cry
"Pray save us from the night!"

Alone in her garden
And blessed with the sun
Sits lonely and gay
Behold the Galadriel,
Playing Tournament-Unreal!

Men laid their weapons down,
And fear is all they do
Fright as they take flight
Before the mountains cast doom.

Their horses are tired
As their hearts are scathed
Diminished they grew
When the Black-sword drew

They hope no hope ,
But still the light remains
Quite distant yet real
A lady,they heard,called 'Galadriel'

Alone in the garden,
And blessed with the sun
Sits lonely and gay,
Behold the Galadriel,
Playing Tounament-Unreal

*

Verse 950: 91% tHo#!

The Hermit shaped crusader had history who nobody shared. His contempt for the White Elves lay below, as if under the dank grave of Moria!

The Gimli's unspoke

Another misery a life led Gloin
After Gimli grew tall enough
To be called a dwarf,
Gloin went to war
Where an Elf hacked his groin.

But Gimli was strong
Old enough for a pledge,
Avenge he would only do
With his father's own axe.

He looked forth for the elf
In the forest of Mirkwood,
But poor he resigned
With his last word "Alas!"

But destiny laughed out loud
Unmarked by any sound,
For the elf that he seeked
Was none but the father of Legolas!

*

Well, there lot many more to speak of... and many to forget and forgive to obscurity for if we not, then our accounts run the fear of being obese, which in this world, where many seas divide the lands and ships fly with arms, we cannot afford. Await more for the veil to uncover as truths still haunt as like ghosts... but nevertheless... I got to go and pee... so would you excuse and thanks for stopping by. See ya Man!

Well... since every person is well informed about language and verbose enough to comprehend, it doesn't leave much space for additional or in other words, abstract understanding to the title. Simply, it means- the one who edits the conspicuous.

aH! well... that was a tautology... silly. Probably, at this point, my mind doesn't have anything clever to narrate, let alone interesting. Hmm... now... that doesn't sound good at all. Does interesting things need to be clever?
Definitely not all clever things are interesting! Why? As a counter-example, allow me to propose trivias in the research world. Tons and Tons of paper-work gets published every day, month, year and will continue to do so, with all the virtues of humanity endowed on us since the epoch. Lot of them are clever... really clever... but are they interesting? Well of course, I am talking in the relative point of view- not the absolute one for a fear repurcurssions from the audience of my noisy opera that I am venturing into. As a digression, I thank you all for your patience and kindness and tolerance.

Coming back to my heresy... with great prudence, as you might have noticed, I have left myself alone from controversy by claiming my view-points as relative, subjected to subjective analysis- and this is precisely the blanket every critic wears regardless of winter, spring, fall or summer.

At this point, you might ask, with little reverence as I can imagine, "Where are you getting at?"

The answer unfortunately comes in a negative "Nowhere... I donno..." and I would further question back to you- "Do you?"
The above functions as a melodrama in movies, where the script-writer finds to clue of the characters behaviour and when the logical (as above ) is asked, the mystical answer as I described solves it all. And at this point, Rationality can seek solace for not working hard.

See... I behave as predictably as any other bloke... Dear me! Then the question is asked- "Then how do you justify yourself as the conspicuous?.... well erh...The Editor of the Conspicuous?"

Aha! Now I will again wear the good ol' blanket of mine that I have left above there, take reference of the melodrama of the gay script-writer and say-

"Well... We don't need to serve a purpose even though there is a question of commitment... In the words of Tarkovsky, Human life doesn't serve any purpose... that's why, Human life is free."