Ive Realised There Isnt A Huge Market For Shakespeare Shit Posts

@helimir brought up such a great point in her tags on this post

The topic of the glory of failure in Tolkien's work is a very interesting one.

In fact, most endeavors end up in failure.

Whether it's Frodo failing to complete his mission, Smeagol failing to free himself of the ring & Gollum, Boromir failing to save the hobbits (or Gondor), the Noldor failing to defeat Melkor, Fëanor & the Fëanorians failing to take their revenge and (for most of them) their Silmarils, Maedhros failing to escape his doom, Fingolfin failing to defeat Melkor, the whole Nirnaeth, etc...

They all fail. But the failure is so epic. So spectacular, there is such a grandeur, such valor & prowess, such tragic beauty, such tales, dare I say, such grace to their failure that could never be found in victory.

They're all still hailed as heroes. (Or at worst, tragic fallen heroes or anti-heroes.)

Whether it's Frodo managing to keep his soul if not his peace & happiness & old life for the mercy & pity & kindness he once showed, whether it's Smeagol unintentionally destroying what destroyed him & saving Frodo's soul, Boromir regaining his honor, Fingolfin leaving a lasting scar on Melkor, Maedhros' true nature finally showing itself after so long in his last moment & expressing such deep shame & regret by killing himself when the Silmarils judged him evil, Maglor's good nature shining through even in his worst moments when he decided to raise the half-elven twins & passed down the best of himself still remained to him to them & them growing up to become such great people, & eventually his good nature showing shame & regret by condemning himself to be forever separated from people & singing songs of regret...as @helimir beautifully expressed, if it's not outright a redemption arc, it at least feels like it. Their struggles mattered, but even more than that, their struggles were what mattered.

Even in things like Nirnaeth that were nothing but catastrophes, they're such beautiful, epic, spectacular catastrophes.

Really, how many endeavors truly result in success?

They made an effort, & therefore, they left an impact. & for that, they went down in history. If not as heroes then at least as tragic figures.

They dreamed, they hoped, they willed, they fought, they tried, they were here.

& that mattered.

so there’s that version in which Miriel leaves for Lorien and dies a bit later… consider; preteen Feanor inventing embroidery and weaving machines in an attempt to give his ailing mother the ability to create something back even if she no longer has the strength to.

broke: din knows nothing about the skywalkers and who they are

woke: din knows about leia but only that she’s the one who killed jabba the hutt

Hello! You have just been visited by the Crackship Fairy, as of now you will be given a crackship and you have to do good by them. Your crackship: Voronwë/Maglor

(This is much more of a gen take on their relationship than it is a shippy one, but my headcanon is that Voronwë is aro, so that’s just how it’s gonna be!)

~

It wasn’t often that Maglor came across another elf on these shores. They were rocky, dreary, generally abandoned; he liked to be alone, and this stretch of coastline was good for that. The few weary Secondborn who eked out a living here were suspicious enough to steer clear of him, and in return he did the same for them.

In ages past this land had been the border of Ossiriand, pressed up against the Blue Mountains. The mountains were still there, taller and grander than ever, but the seven rivers were sunk under the sea and the singing Laiquendi had long since fled for greener lands.

Mithlond was not too terribly far from these his favorite haunting grounds, but no matter how genial and polite Círdan was Maglor knew he was not welcome there: the Falathrim had not forgotten the ruin of Sirion. No, this was a place where he could wander alone, his mind free to catch forgotten melodies on the wind and his spirit unbound by any constraints of law or temptations of love.

And yet: here stood a simple dwelling, still clearly Noldorin in make, looking near as old as Maglor felt. He had wandered this beach a hundred times or more, and never before had he run across this little elfhome that appeared to have been here since Beleriand’s death throes had finally ceased and the lands he had bled and fought and suffered for settled under the vast ocean.

Entranced, Maglor approached the house, noting its angular shapes, the Tengwar over the door, shimmering with some faint enchantment. He shivered as his fëa brushed against it: he was not repulsed, per se, and yet he was permitted to pass through the barrier.

“Who goes there?” demanded a voice too soft for its tone.

Maglor turned around, tensing instinctively and letting his hand wrap around the hilt of his dagger. The speaker was an elf, as he had thought, though they conversed in Westron, and though his eyes did not shine with Treelight he had the stature and bearing of one of Maglor’s kin. Still, there was something a little off about him—the shell patterns on his clothing, perhaps, the shimmering blue of his blade, or the curve of his nose, which reminded Maglor strongly of a person he could not quite place. Perhaps he was of the Sindar as well as the Noldor.

“Peace,” he said slowly in Sindarin. “I mean you no harm. I was simply curious of your dwelling. I will leave you to your solitude.”

The ellon relaxed, though he did not sheath his sword. “Thank you,” he said in that soft voice. “But you have not answered my question. Who are you?” He glanced to Maglor’s cloak, tattered and torn and yet unmistakably blood-crimson. It was not the same one he had worn when he cast the Silmaril into the sea—that had long since unraveled into nothing but a painful memory—but thought Maglor no longer wore his father’s star openly, he would not abandon his Fëanárion pride, nor could he wash his hands of the blood upon them.

He could give the ellon a false name; he had done so to others in the past. But Maglor was so tired, of hiding, of running, of lying, and he did not have the heart to do so. He adjusted his grip on his dagger, knowing that if this ellon was part Sindar, there was every chance he would be met with long-sleeping anger reawoken.

And yet, still, he spoke his name.

“I am Kanafinwë Makalaurë Fëanárion,” he said, “though you may know me better as Maglor the singer; and you may wish my name had never had cause to be uttered here in the east. Certainly I wish that at times.”

“Oh.” For a moment the ellon’s resolve wavered, and then he grimaced, sighing, and sheathed his blade. “Well,” he began, switching to musical Quenya that made Maglor’s heart swell with a fondness long-forgotten, “by all I rights I ought to hate you, Fëanárion, and yet it is not often that I hear my father’s tongue spoken, especially not by a voice so lovely as yours.”

“Who was your father?” Makalaurë asked, dread coiling in his stomach. If this was another long-lost relative—

“Aranwë of Ondolindë,” said the nér, and a smile twitched at the corner of his lips. “I am Voronwë the mariner, once-friend of Tuor Ulmondil and Eärendil Morningstar.”

Voronwë—yes, he had heard that name before. A nér of Gondolin, a mariner, a friend to Eärendil and Tuor...and kinsman to Círdan, if he remembered correctly. Makalaurë shuddered, bowing his head.

“You were at Sirion,” he murmured. It was not a question.

“Not precisely,” Voronwë said. “Elwing, wife of my dear friend’s son, and her children—they were there. But I dwelt alone in a home not unlike this one, some miles away from the city, as I ever have since Tuor and Itarillë departed for the West.”

Makalaurë’s heart skipped a beat. “I—regret what was done,” he began, but Voronwë waved a hand.

“Come in,” he invited, walking past the protective enchantment around the perimeter of his little home and beckoning Makalaurë in. “That was an age long ago, and we have both suffered enough for our choices. I would speak with you, over supper, of those you called your sons—unlike Eärendil, I did not have the pleasure of seeing them grow to adulthood, and I would hear from you what they are like.”

Makalaurë took a deep breath, then nodded. Voronwë’s offer of conversation, of a meal, of companionship was more than he deserved—but he spoke truly, that he was not the same nér who pillaged Sirion and kidnapped little children. And Makalaurë could never turn down an opportunity to sing the praises of his sons, no matter how little right he had to call them that.

So he walked inside, let Voronwë lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, and let go of some small portion of his sorrow.

Dancing under the stars and calling clients while lightly bouncing on the trampoline are not mutually exclusive with adulthood.

Don't deprive yourself of joy because you think maturity is being serious and worried all the time.

Me: why do my intestines hurt?

Me: *remembers that I drank a large milk tea and I'm lactose intolerant*

Me: oh

This time of year is always very nostalgic for me bc I used to be the Token Gentile at an office and every few months there'd be a Jewish holiday and my friend would be like "Hey, I need you to do Gentile things for us" and I'd be like hell yes dude. Gentile Things often meant I'd sign things in exchange for a few dollars on venmo but Pesach was a special time for me because it meant everyone gave me boxes of pasta, cereal, and other baked goods. The first time my friends were like "Hey for reasons we won't bother getting into we're going to give you all of our bread" I was like, it is a powerful responsibility but as an Ally I cannot refuse. Best time of the year, frankly

Listen up!

You see a post like this? Where OP might hurt/kill themselves? You hit that button that I circled

Hit that.

Click Suicide or Self-harm Concern

Yes.

Fill in the rest of it, and hit submit. The "content you reported" will fill itself in

Tumblr will follow up and help them.

Warning: this is only for mobile. If anyone knows how to do this for desktop, please add it!

This could SAVE SOMEONE'S LIFE.

YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE NOT TO REBLOG THIS.

I DON'T GIVE A FUCK IF IT DOESN'T GO WITH YOUR BLOG'S THEME.

And yes, REBLOG. Liking does no shit at all. This isn't ig.

You reblog, people see it. You don't, people don't see it. This shit's that simple.

This could save someone's life. It's not a joke.

oh my goodness, one of dian fossey’s first close up observations with gorillas happened when she was trying to climb a tree to see them better, but so badly that by the time she’d gotten up the entire group had come out of hiding to look at her: “Nearly all members of the group had totally exposed themselves, forgetting about hiding coyly behind foliage screens because it was obvious to them that the observer had been distracted by tree-climbing problems, an activity they could understand.”

"Elrond raised his eyes and looked at him, and Frodo felt his heart pierced by the sudden keenness of the glance." - The Fellowship of the Ring, The Council of Elrond.

So. What do you want to bet that when glorfindel came back to middle earth he had a heart attack because elrond looked like maeglin.

(This means that the list of people glorfindel has considered trying to murder about this exact topic is elrond, bilbo, and aragorn. Plus a bunch of elrond's other human fosters but none of THEM fell for arwen so aragorn was def the most severe)

And since arwen is exactly like elrond in every way, this is yet more proof for my theory of "every character named twilight + son/daughter is a meaningful parallel"