The New Arsenal

The end of an era; an era fraught with longing hope, and crushed dreams. What a downbeat way for the man who built this club to leave. In this is lesson to all readers never to overstay our welcome. The signs were clear a decade ago. The senior players  continually complained of a lack of ambition.
    Already we are reaping the fruits of letting Wenger go. Average players have been handed their inevitable death note. Surely if Arsenal were looking to win the league they would have offloaded these players years ago? Wenger stood by them. He took them as a personal project. He refused to replace them. He let sentimentality get in the way of success. He was not supported and refused support. He let top players run down their contracts. He failed to reinforce where reinforcement was needed. He did not buy the players that ManU and Barca would. Simply, he was content with mediocrity. And that is why he had to go.
    He did what he did, accomplishing what he accomplished in a manner unrivalled in history, but he refused to adapt to the changing game. He was content with the ways of a bygone era. Whilst others paid for the world's top stars, our manager was happy competing with players who would not even make Barca's bench. Whilst the whole world was screaming in despair, yearning for change, begging for a new approach, our manager closed his eyes, put his fingers in his ears and stubbornly stood by his inadequate squad. For that reason alone, few are now weeping over this fallen legend. It is known that every person's time will one day come. Wenger's time had indeed come years ago, but he wrestled and clinged to burning embers of hope. But these embers were not nurtured with the fuel they needed to compete with the devouring flames of rival clubs.
    So we say: farewell. Thank-you for the memories and thank-you for the cruel life lessons we have inadvertently learnt.

The Return

6 years I last posted. 6 years of sorrow, happiness, thrill, grief, pain, suffering, success, ease, fun, fear, fright, foolishness, regret, despair, panic, and pressure. I revisit this blog, almost accidentally. Sometimes I like to read my old writing. I like to observe the fluidity of words. I like to analyse the nature of the ink that flows from my pen. Is there improvement. Is there stagnancy? I do not know, yet I wish to know. I yearn to know. I need to know. I need to know how my writing stands compared to the Umar of the past. Of course, writing is but a collection of words, but behind those words rests a developing human mind. The words are a reflection of that mind. Is my mind working in a more sophisticated way. But what even is sophistication. That is a question for another day. For now, my brother beckons me to the gym. I wish not to go. But I must. My mind is in conflict with the desires of my soul. No. I am being dramatic. But what is creative writing other than an ostentatious display of words. Goodbye.