Born out of your time

I think about closing the door
And lately I think of it more
I'm living well out of my time
I feel like I'm losing my mind
I should be at the table round
A servant of the crown
The keeper of the sign
To sparkle and to shine

--"Falling off the Edge of the World," Black Sabbath

So here I am on a Friday night after another long, grueling week of work, feeling again like I may have born in the wrong time. Does anyone else believe that they may once have led a very different life: That of a viking raider on a longship, for instance, riding the wind-tossed waves to plunder and battle? Or a solitary knight in the service of King Arthur, wrapped in a wind-blown cloak and mounted on a grey horse, searching Britain for signs and portents of the Holy Grail?

Maybe I'm a little cracked, but there are times when I feel that, while I may currently reside in the body of a soft 21st century American office worker, my spirit is elsewhere--perhaps in a grim, grey-cloaked ranger patrolling the outskirts of The Shire, or a fortunate traveler listening to elven songs in the Hall of Fire, or a hard-bitten mercenary eyeing a tavern wench in the Maul of Shadizar.

In the sober light of day, if pressed, I would admit that this wistful line of thinking is silly, especially when it comes to conditions as they really were 1,000 years ago. Living in the middle ages (from everything I've read) was downright awful. Plague, sickness, and untimely death was commonplace. I certainly wouldn't have the luxury of sitting at a computer with a beer and typing out BS blog posts as I'm want to do. Hell, I'd probably be dead in a ditch with my head caved in by an axe blow.

But that doesn't mean I can't daydream about participating in the Ride of the Rohirrim. After a long, frustrating day in the office, slamming my spear and horse into a wall of orcs with abandon on the plains of the Pelennor sounds downright inviting:

And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.

If you too feel trapped in a time and circumstance of dreary prosiness, well, I've got a barstool I'm saving for you at the Inn of the Welcome Wench. There's an old moathouse that I'd like to explore. Sharpen your longsword, grab a torch, and let's get started.