Die Hexen von Oz. Servante du feu. Various Japanese rock/anime songs . . . English is all I know. If it's Wicked or Die Hexen, it's Willemijn who I'll listen to; far before Kerry Ellis.
I'm not so foolish that I listened to Wicked every second of every day when I was obsessed with it. No. I treasured it dearly and protectively; I knew that to overindulge was to lose passion. Well, it's been established much of that passion is gone.
From what I've been able to translate, even when still smitten for Wicked, I admitted that Die Hexen might be even more magnificent than its English counterpart.
A song in a foreign language can be beautiful regardless of the lyrics because the lyrics are quite irrelevant to ignorant ears. Myself . . .

I strive to fully understand--the books I read, the music I hear, the things people say that sound pretty excellent and probably have a meaning. I've read Gregory Maguire's Wicked seven times. Legitimately not out of a fangirl's obsession but a piqued interest in that world . . . I still don't understand. Ha--honestly, I thought a lot of the magical references were supposed to be metaphorical so when I got my hands on A Lion Among Men, I felt pretty ********.
Wicked the musical I didn't need to study. I didn't even need to pay attention. I already knew the story, and though I left that beautiful, London theatre without a care but for a bed, the next day, I felt the change. Wicked is precious to me. It has gained a reputation for screaming, teenaged fangirls and a fanbase for the fun and the romance and the badass Act I ender . . . Of course, for me, Wicked is more and, even if I can't feel what I felt--to even recall the nudge to influence me into this person now--I will love it. Because . . . because I need to have faith in the me that was there . . . and dignify the love she had. To let that go would be to destroy a part of me. It wouldn't affect me. But it would affect her. The girl in the London theatre.


I've recently begun to read Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. My first read of his was The Hunchback and I absolutely adored it; his writing style and the story. Les Mis is just as good as a book . . . but I can't read it right now. Not when I don't stand a chance at, far from understanding the misery of the characters (Oh, that word . . . it used to be so meaningless! Not that I've experienced it. But things are on levels now so I can see . . . the distance.), but just being able to at least sympathize with their plights.

The story's foreword-ish-type-thing writ by Hugo is that as long as there is misery and suffering in the world, books like Les Mis can be but good. Much longer and more impressive than that, but the gist. Ahum. Why was that relevant . . . damn, I forgot. * Ah yes. Well, there is most certainly misery and suffering; no doubt of it. That health care plan? Whoo! . . . 'Course . . . even with that . . . this book is little good to me; so distanced from physical misery and suffering.

I was considering typing that to read Les Mis now would be fun for me, but hurtful to her. The girl in the future who might have stood a chance to grasp the story but was stolen that chance by a bored, do-nothing NEET whiles earlier.
But wouldn't it be like Promises, Promises actually? The story on that. Kristin Chenoweth, a loved person of mine, is to star in said show as beginning next week on Broadway. She has spoken of how, as a teenager, she saw Promises, Promises but in no way could begin to understand the pain of unrequited love, the . . . yeah, I have no words, because I wouldn't know.
Well, now she knows. She knows very well.

Not that I particularly expect myself to experience poverty, starvation, and brutality in the pits of Paris a century or two ago any time soon and thus deem myself worthy of afternoon Candide chats with Fantine. (Whom I haven't yet reached in the story though the first book is of her name.) No, no. I'm just hoping that I'll be less detached; more open to emotion.

Which now brings me to address my previous entry. As one may have noted, contrary to the new plan of completely detaching myself from myself, I will continue to try to reattach. To the world. To the things I once loved and desperately want to again.
Just for posterity; yesterday I went on a walk. The river, the mountains, the gnats, the families, the park. The park with the man, the man with the granddaughter. A lost Pokemon on the sidewalk; reclaimed by some unseen person.
There was no great epiphany; no epiphany at all. I'm not so lucky as to have sudden realization; it takes time and agony. Some rather wise man whose name I do not know once said something along the lines of, "The duty of the young is to struggle."
Oho.
The closest thing to an epiphany at the park that night was seeing the man's granddaughter (Loli?) swing on her stomach. As in; you have a swing and you lay down on it. I used to do that as a kid. It was a startling, touching moment.

Before I went on the walk, I was studying up on meditation. New perspective; detachment. I'm an atheist, but as far as religions go, Buddhism by far sounds the most sensible. Mastery of the self is the greatest achievement. Self enlightenment. It's all for oneself. Which I support immensely. "For oneself,". Yes. Good.
Then I went on my walk. I don't go outside. I don't walk. I don't wear my hair in ponytails as I did on my walk. However, I was taking a break from anime because I felt I couldn't appreciate it the way I was; detached. Mother wouldn't let me play Fire Emblem because she was playing. I really have nothing else to do then. Thus; my walk.
True to my plan, I tried to detach from myself. Well, we'll get straight to the point here; it didn't work so well. In Les Mis, there's a fair bit of the self. That's the kind of stuff I want to understand. I didn't and I don't though I think it would be relevant here.

So there was no moment of recognizable decision to reattach. I did have some thoughts I'd like to mention here, though. First, let me say, detachment first came to me through school; I distanced myself from the annoying work; tried to do it with only half a mind. Met with a quarter success. The idea of being uncaring but still just managing to pass was appealing. This thus applied itself to everything I did and do.
That was background info; not a walk thought. The relating walk thought was, "What happened to being happy?" An online blow-out of stubborn compassion and half-wit friendship began to reach its Endgame with him declaring that I would be ******** happy! Implying that I couldn't be alone as I wished. I responded that yes, I would be happy. Alone. Not lonely--but alone. No, I didn't want to be lonely anymore. Ever again. I would be, I knew that, but I would learn . . . learn to be lonely.
There was a time--seventh grade--when I did not want to be happy. But now I do and though I do, I do respect and understand that girl of two years ago's feelings, I won't submit to them.
So here's to the health folks and body fitness people--laziness does not equal happiness! You need to work hard to be lazy and happy. Or, well, I do, anyway, of course. I knew that--I was working hard at being lazy. Things suffered for that, and . . . I wasn't ever really happy.
Damn it, that may be wrong. I'm tired and losing focus. Haven't even gotten to what got me started on this entry. Damn it! I had so much to say. Was going to do this after my walk like a smart person but something kept me; can't remember what. Ergh!

Okay. I'm going to stop now before I spam. Leaving off with what began;
Servante du feu