Dying a good death

There's an emotion we all have which we can never define.
It's not elation, depression, nor simple idiotic normalcy.
It's just an emotion of unexplainable, err, depth.

To demonstrate the depths of this depthness I'm talking about, imagine if you will,  a  well of water so deep that even if you drop a stone in it, you won't hear the sound of the stone dropping on the water, ever. I feel bigger than reality, bigger than a god. I feel as if I could reach down in this depth, reach out, and bring forth a fountain of so much inspiration I can feed every struggling writer alive today. (struggling writer defined as: a writer so bereft of words even lady muse won't visit them)

The power to write, I'm happy to say, is mine again.
No, let me rephrase that.
The power to express myself, is mine again.

After six years of languishing in expiration hell (the complete opposite of the paradise of inspiration), I find myself again gifted with words. My gift being given back by no less than my better whole. She who has given so much to save me from myself, she who has done the "surpassing", not surprisingly, has given me back my soul.

Well, not so much as given me back my soul, but given me a new one. Hers.
And heaven and hell will have no greater fury if I will not appreciate that.
For all of my reminiscence, and my desire to bring back those "wonder years", I have always known deep in my heart that the more wondeful years are ahead of me, not behind me. That the moment I'm wishing for is here.

Truly, fate has me by the neck. Even now, I can feel its shackles holding me back. I've always said it's immaterial to believe in free will whilst believing in destiny. I still believe that. But knowing now how inconsequential we are to fate controlling our lives, I am inclined to at least fight against it, every step of the way.

An image of Tristan appears in my mind, fighting that grizzly bear he spared during his youth, and an indian's voice speaks: 'twas a good death.

Tristan died fighting.
And so will I.