I thought the breakdown over watching Camelot again now that these people have come to mean so much to me was bad enough, but now this...I think the fictions of a woman who found the place who felt and saw it, fiction though I know it all is...is just a little much for me to bear.
I'm seriously sitting here sobbing, my heart aching for this place I'll never venture, never touch...It hurts. It hurts so deeply and so fiercely that it feels like I'm about to break in two. How beautiful it must have been, how wonderful to see it, feel it, touch this place that exists in the realm of what might have been, what should have been, what is made real by those of us who so strongly believe in it.
I need for it to be more real than that or nothing else will ever be okay. Dammit, I think I'd be at home there, much as I would be in my beloved Riddermark, much as I only feel at home when I'm wandering around the quieter sections of the faire when only people who are garbed up are walking there.
I want to go home now. I want it so badly I...
It's the bringing it here that matters most now, even in some small insignificant way.
That's it. I may be too old to start, but I'm going for that knighthood, I am finishing my book, and I will make it live through my scholarly work and later teaching. I owe them that if nothing else.
Ask every person if he's heard the story
And tell it strong and clear if he has not,
That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory
I'm going to go cry again now.