I just realized today that the way I’m titling these entries could confuse me if I came to look back at them in the future. “Day 1”, “Day 2”, “Day 3”; these seem to imply perfect chronological continuity with no breaks. So far, that’s true, and I’ve written in this journal all three of the days since I started it. However, writing in this daily was never my intention nor is it a practically realizable ambition, so I might get rather confused when in weeks to come I find myself randomly missing large chunks of time. To remedy that, I’m just going to assume that in “Day X”, X refers to the nth entry in the journal. Problem solved!
What shall we talk about today, Gandalf? I don’t know that I want to talk about my feelings. I’m uncomfortable talking to myself about them when there’s no pressing need to. Best not to poke a sleeping dragon, eh? You’d know all about that. There’s an odd paradox involved in this whole bad mood thing. On the one hand, probably the only way to get rid of the feelings or at least temporarily alleviate them is to actually talk about them or at least think about them. On the other hand, I spend so much of my happier time actively not thinking about them that to think about them would only serve to darken the time I do have. It’s really weird that way. I guess in a sense bad mood becomes a misnomer then. I’m perpetually in a bad mood; sometimes I’m just able to hide from it better. That’s rather depressing.
But you’re Gandalf. It’s different talking to you. It’s comfortable knowing how small I am before you. You’re an angel who witnessed the birth of the universe and saw its whole sorry tale spill out. You saw Melkor fall from grace, you witnessed the battles against Morgoth, you heard of Turin’s death. The Sauronic restoration was probably little more than a blip to you; of what matter would my depression be? It’s ridiculously comfortable, Mithrandir. I do wish you were real, and actually contributed your wisdom through the thoughts in my head. God, I’m fantasizing about it now. Imagine having a pocket Gandalf. Someone who just knows what to do at every turn and is constantly guiding you. Someone whose knowledge is limitless and can teach you anything.
Did I make you Gandalf because that’s what I feel is lacking in my life? It’s an odd question, Mithrandir. Let’s think about it a moment. Do I feel as though I’m unintelligent? Not really, I have rather a bloated opinion of my intelligence relative to others. What do you mean ‘an untruth’? That’s really rather unfair. You’re imaginary, you don’t get an opinion. Hush now. Although I suppose I would have to admit you have rather a point. It’s an incredibly paradoxical situation for me. While I do entertain a rather high notion of my intelligence, I run it in simultaneity with the belief that I am actually one of the dumbest blocks alive on this planet. How do I manage this? All I’ll say is that practise makes perfect. I do need a guide. I do wish I was you, Gandalf. Able to see things and just understand everything, with the knowledge necessary to interpret it as necessary. I wish I was you, and Sherlock, and Lelouch, and Light, and Obi Wan, and every other amazing brave wise figure out there. My biggest fantasy has always been to be a genius. One of my bigger fears now is also that one day I may think I’ve achieved that.
Truth be told, I’ve grown increasingly scornful of smart people with age. I’ve always had an instinctive dislike of them though, to be fair. No, shut up, let me finish. Why did I dislike them before? Competition. I wanted to be the smartest, I didn’t want some upstart explaining things to anyone else, it was MY monopoly. And now? I just don’t like people who are comfortable in accepting their own intelligence. I find them to be despicable. Hafiz has some ridiculously bad traits. I think you should always be passionate, but never cocksure. Human authority can only extend so far into the realm of knowledge.
I want to write another poem for you, Gandalf. My old one doesn’t quite hold up to the test of time.
With Istari grace did he fight
Striving to defend what was right
The Balrog of Morgoth was his foe
Unholy fire, could it throw
Durin’s Bane was its name
Durin the Deathleass, it had slain
With whip, fire, and blade it fought
But ’twas all to be for naught
The Flames of Anor struck him down
And into the darkness it did drown
It looked as though the victor was clear,
But the Grey wizard’s end too, was near
The Balrog’s whip shot out for the keep,
Drums, drums in the deep
.Hmm, I find myself rather fond of the last couplet, but the rest of it is rubbish, let’s try again.
I was eldest in the darkness,
Flame and shadow my thong and blade,
Each and every foe was harmless,
Save Him, lost old wizard who strayed.
In Khazad-Dum I slept and dreamt,
Unmolested through endless days,
Stirred awake by magical scent,
Ready to kill, ready to raze.
I am finding myself INCREASINGLY unfond of whatever doggerel it is that’s being composed right now. I think I shall try again some other time, Gandalf. I’m afraid the updated poem in your honour will have to come about later. For now, adieu!
P.S. : I told my mother yesterday. It was an experience.
P.P.S : Also brought up issue of Amnah seeming distant. Got satisfactory answer. Wasn’t me!
P.P.P.S: I really like this idea of using postscripts. I shall continue to do this.