Romanticism and past tales

nights like this...nights like this are nights I wish I had a key like in the matrix. a key that if I put it in any lock it would open into a specific place. granted it would be in a different time as well but you get the general idea. anyway Ireland used to have these forests that sprawled across most of Munster and large swathes of them across the other three provinces. way back when the English decided to cut most of them down for a few reasons. chiefly becuase the natives were hiding in them and using them as staging areas to assault English soldiers. thats not the point of this journal just a little something to put things in perspective because (in my head at least) the iconic image most peple have of ireland is a never ending sea of grass that jut sprawls forever. and in my head I see it a little differently. In my head I see forests of oak and maple and pine. I see wild and untamed places where few men dare to tread and those that do do so with a reverence rarely seen now days. I see Fae hills and ruins. I see beauty. there has been a few nights such as tonight. nights when I miss the pub where I found a place to call my own. when I miss some of the first friends I made in a long time. friends who were willing to sit down and talk and listen...nights like this I miss the forest of oak and maple that I had come to think of as a second home. of the lake where I caught almost 40 sunfish as a kid with no bait on the lines...the forest with the hilled field that had mist so thick you could barely see through it some mornings. the same field I walked through one morningand watched the sun come up, and then watched with awe as a few does and a buck walked opposite me. you want to understand the majestic beauty of nature? take one of its creatures that are wild and untamed, and stare it in the eyes with respect. stare it down knowing that it can and will kill you if it feels threatened. I would trapse through those woods that I knew so well...and some days I would wake before the rest and just walk to the lake. to the small inlet I had found and claimed, and I would sit ont he damp rock and stare with dumbstruck awe at the sun rising in front of my face. when I would take my ocorina and play soft tunes to the moon...on nights like tonights I yearn for little more than to sit under the protective gaze of one of the Ancient Oaks, a fire to my fore and a bed of moss and pine needles at my back. and now, as then. I cna hear the haunting melody of the forest. calling me back...ever back...in truth this stems from loneliness. because I never felt alone int he forest. I could hear the music of the place and feel its life through my feet. I remember when I was little and I would sneak off around mid day. and I would find one of the Old Ones. one of the trees that had watched the centuries pass. and I would find a spot in their roots where only I fit. and I would pretend they were wrapping me in their embrace. I miss the forest. but most of all. mé fada dol mo ionúin.

Ookami-no-Getsuei