Penury of Credence

It felt like the crucifying crushing of a thousand perfidious stakes through my heart. It felt like the overwhelming pressure of the paltry waters drowning in the ocean depths of hypocrisy. It felt like vindictive suffocation from the duplicitous air of unyielding intellect. And it felt like the misplaced trust of an unfaltering stanchness on an emotionless rock of affectation.

I lived through these senseless adages in a day that was filled with perpetual pleasantness until the hammer of adjudication fell in one fleeting motion of reversed affability. There was no way I could have envisaged the coming of the corporate onslaught. A circuitous blow from one of your own is usually not expected. It was almost evocative of a friendly fire literally behind enemy lines. Suffice to say, I was unprepared from the result of coming up short in my wildest imagination department.

We sometimes sell ourselves short of our own expectations in order to meet the unrealistic demands of others. I then wonder how could I have allowed myself to be placed into such an uncompromising situation to begin with. To live with this given obduracy is to condemn yourself into reviling reproach.

With recent events snapping into place in a series of perspicacious puzzle, I cannot help but be contented in the discernment of my own vocation. The acuity acquired is astute and inestimable. Hence for now, I shall immerse myself in the unrelenting forbearance of elucidating waters.

The proving grounds which I have so often and consistently whet upon will now serve as a reminder of how perilous and precarious it can be at times of unremitting adversity. The order of the day is the penury from which all my source of destitution stems from. With this in mind, I know that the custodians of my trade maturity has only so much to offer in terms of enduring enthusiasm in revealing the road to perdition before me.

It is very hard to live through such proxies day-in and day-out but I know the resilience lies within me as I try to shirk the belief that I am already at the edge of my patience and tolerance...two words among the very few in my life from which I borrow all my credence from.

And as I move onwards with both eyes affixed onto the finish line, I learn that life as I see it, is not painted with colours...but by colours of knowledge, choice and absence where we attach our faith onto. Sometimes we see the colours, sometimes we gain and lose some knowledge, sometimes we observe the choices, sometimes we recognize the absences...

And sometimes in life we do not get things the way we wanted, but we gain extra knowledge of what others wanted.

The Devil Is In the Details

In five days, the crusading contingent from Old Trafford will take on the expedition of the season. These seeking souls will be presented with a providential prospect of re-writing the history of football for the land which they hail from - England; and the charismatic club they humbly serve - Manchester United.

These gallant knights from the proving grounds of Carrington Field will embark on a valiant quest to invade the Roman fortress of Olimpico, wherein await the Catalan knights from the Camp Nou and their horde of Spanish culers. But how did it all began? Where did it all turned for both clubs? What were the stones that shifted in order for this momentous event to fall into place?

It all began about a month ago on a fortuitous night during the campaign to raze the Emirates where United - led by Sir Alex Ferguson, produced an awesome and overwhelming attacking display to destroy Arsenal. Park Ji-sung's opener was a result of fate and preordained fortune coupled with the faux pas of a young individual by the name of Kieran Gibbs - whose name will be remembered by the United followers for a while.

At that point in time, the United contingent went delirious. They knew the prospect of Arsenal getting three to go through was so remote to be beyond comprehension. But if United's opener came courtesy of good fortune, their next was the result of sheer audacity and bold impudence mixed with soaring ability.

Ronaldo scored a crackling freekick from 41 yards. To even think of going for goal from the spot would be dismissed by most as rash and imprudent. As Ronaldo stepped back and waited, ready to unleash his missile, Almunia knew what to expect. Indeed, it could be argued that from such distances, Almunia should not have been beaten. But as Ronaldo let loose his projectile - with venom and vigour, infused with his bodily spite and malice, and watched his shot dip and flicker, Almunia was powerless to prevent it from ripping into the net.

The rest for that night was history. As Sir Alex's men capered in exultant glory and cavorted in triumphant glee, he ordered them to tone down their merriment out of respect for the conquered combatants. It was the only mercy the Red Devils showed all night. Yes, not the chivalrous knights of Old Trafford but in truth, the fiendish Devils in disguise. The victory however, came with a price.

Darren Fletcher - one of the most honest men under Sir Alex's command, was red-carded in that battle. He was the only casualty from that fateful battle and will now miss the invasion to Rome and the siege of Olimpico.

His was the result of an unfortunate decision by the match referee in the form of a war priest whose blessings for the champions before the conflict and deliverance during the scuffle ensued in an error of tidings and injustice.

However costly this casualty was, Fletcher will be remembered as United's martyr on the day the history books were opened to be re-written. The rulling must stay as was etched in the stars. The decision of the referee should be final no matter what as it would destroy the very fabric of football reality should a red-card decision in a match of such magnitude proportions be ever reversed.

In a way, it is like opening Pandora's Box if you can challenge every decision. When you rule that it is not a red card, you are also saying it is not a penalty, and therefore not a goal. What do you do then? Start changing the results of matches afterwards? It almost feels like heresy in football. It would destroy the very foundation of decades of match rullings.

As harsh as it was, it is not an excuse and the Reds will go marching onto the Roman plains in five days. United have a date with destiny and under the tutelage of Sir Alex himself, will take on Barca hoping to come out victorious but not unscathed. Difficult and impossible decisions will be made, strategies and tactics will be revised and retried, knowledge of the enemy will be hungrily extracted and no soul will be left untouched by the deciduous inquest of the Red Devils.

The key to success and the devil, is in the details...

Vanquished

The sun rose up into the enthralling expanse of the surreptitious skies and descended into the mesmeric mesas spread out across the haunting horizon of the furtive flatlands. The wind blew athwart the untainted uplands and left behind a lingering squall of riveting breeze. A streak of fiery flare whizzed across the blackness of the starlit night, leaving a trail of blue brilliance as the only evidence of the overlooked shooting star.

The outline of a distinct figure stood at the edge of a ledge observing the singular spectacle unfolded before him. With a knowing gaze, he tilted his head down and noticed the periphery silhouette of reality around him...the realization that he has not trespassed in the secret plateau lately. It was the infringement of steadfast constancy that has been purged from this land.

But little did he knew that just at the apex of the distant horizon looms the encroaching enigma that will revivify the inhospitable terrains that now plague the panorama before him. As the tectonic shifts of relentless reproach reshapes the ground below his feet, weariness cloaks the lone figure but not before imparting on him the truth that if he cannot be contented with what he has received, be thankful for what he escaped instead.

Reeling from relentless restlessness can be resentful but rewarding if rightfully requited.