there's a song playing in my head, a song called meadows of heaven by nightwish. their new vocal, who shrieks in a mezzo-soprano range in a very contemporary rock-musician-way completely satisfies the inner nerves. Shudderingly awesome. Coupled with electric guitar riffs/solos and 180-men/women (gotta be politically correct) choir back-up, along with percussive support, this Nightwish album en total is very good, indeed.

I've been fine, or perhaps not fine since the creation of me, but compared to the entries I've emptied here 2-3 years ago, I'd have to say I'm good, even-- fine, even though I'm really not. I can't remember who I was back then in the period of Faith of Love (that's what I call that time now in my head). I can't remember because who I am now dictates that I do not remember who I was back then. What a difference from then and now there must be for me to be this way. Back then I simply had Faith, Love, Faith in Love, unabashed expressions of rage, sorrow, joy, passion, obsession in all manner. Now these things seem "cliche"-- maybe I now realize that the self-consciousness for cliches is perhaps cliche in itself? It's like fearing to watch a movie because it is a movie and I've watched probably movies with plots/characterizations that are similar. I wouldn't know till I tried, and it would still be different, wouldn't it? I have to get rid of these irrational fears. That's holding me in a cage. A cage of... limitations on who I am. I must extend the bars that define me, I must overcome. I ALSO had a fear of adhering to strict vocabulary until this very moment. Wrong to say "must" and "need" in most cases, probably all.

Screw it. Logic can't trap me forever (uh-oh, did I just say that?)

I'd gotten my laptop turned on not-so-long ago to write some brilliant fiction, but that turned out to be a dreamlike wish, like most other surges or creative thought I've had for a long time... Damn, why is it that I look backward at a grey period of Long Ago as a basis to say, "You know I wasn't this pathetic 2-3 years ago...back then I was actually somewhat ideal (to the ideals I have now)" Come to think of it, that's very convenient, isn't it. I'm thinking I was like that back then, too. If I were, maybe that's who I am. Maybe even further, the excuse of dreaming up an ideal past is something we all do.

I'm not getting anywhere by writing these things, maybe. Probably not, since there is no NEED or MUST-DO-REASON for me to write at this time. In a few hours I must pretend to be ready for a new day. Probably this new day will have a time for me to achieve things, Get Things Done Maybe. Maybe, just maybe.

"And he cried. The tears slid down his cheeks, and he was intensely self-conscious that he was crying. He hadn't cried out loud for an unimaginable time. He'd been unable to, actually. Always it was a throbbing thump of mental pulse eating away at his sanity at stressful times. He'd felt grey, a color almost approaching black. He'd have visual cues in his mind, a picture of a black emptiness which suggested to him in those moments of the immaculate desolation of despair. He remembered, even while crying and laughing in craze, the experience of utter emptiness in the heart. And that word-- heart-- reminded him of his cold treatment of life-- always thinking of events as convergences of multiple causes to their intertwining effects. Always trying to reason out when the ordinary man would either be feeling or trying not to feel. He'd pretend there would be no need to feel.

But as he continued crying and laughing during it, he thought that maybe he wasn't pretending there was no need to feel-- the scariest thing to him then was that perhaps there was no need to feel really after all, and that thought filled his burdened mind-- heart-- with an addition of despair. No need to feel, to cry! Pointless endeavor to repond to life's toils in such an unproductive response! Crying now in his room, eyes wandering over the book-shelf on the wall across his drawers, he thought these things-- and cried some more."

Good fiction, that was. Actually, you might have suspected this, but not fiction. Of course, the account is fictional, but not the mindset of the character. I'm going to use that passage. I like it. I'd accomplished something tonight-- I've wrote a Xanga entry/Facebook note that I actually like, and I'd gotten started at that "fiction" I'd been meaning to do when I started the laptop at 2 am. Good. Very good. Today will be something, after all, even if nothing else good happens after now.