A little something I call The Celtic Rage.

Good evening people!

Have any of you ever experienced that fierce passion within you before?The aggressiveness that drives you to go on a warpath,led by sheer bloodlust?It's easy to supress,but sometime in the near future,i do believe that i would want to don Ancient Celtic armour and go into battle.It would obviously be impossible,so the next best thing i can do is listen to Celtic music to drum up this emoti0n.Clannad would do well...Hmmm...Time to go CD hunting.

I coined it "The Celtic Rage"as when i felt this unfeeling rage,the Celts immediately popped into my mind.They're so brutally crude,yet elegant in their own way.It's the way that they cultivate and inherit their amazing culture that amazes me.Till today,Irish and Scottish folk ballads and cultures have been one of the most unique.There's this distinctive primal beat about the Irish songs that awakes this certain craving for destruction within me.It makes me feel free,makes me feel as if all worldly troubles are gone.It makes me feel like i'm ME.It makes me feel liberated,emancipated,makes me feel as though i've just let out the most throaty call i can ever produce.

I close my eyes,and visualise myself dressed in crude leather,iron,steel and fur.My hair hangs matted around my face.In my right hand I am hefting a large hatchet.In my left a oval shield decorated with the emblem of a rearing horse is held aloft.I am sitting astride an ebony steed fitted with a simple,light saddle made of worn leather.Iron gauntlets encase my arms and studded rawhide gloves fit snugly around my knuckles.Slung around my back is a longbow constructed simply from the middle ring of an Ash tree.A quiver of arrows is slung across it,forming an X.At my waist hangs a curved,light sword.A scythe-like sword,if you like.Another item hanging there is a jet-black horn.As expected,tough leather boots protect my feet and a flowing,black silky torrent that is a cloak shrouds me in darkness.

My imaginary clan leader,a 1.8m tall dark haired muscular male,is clad in similar garb.He speaks in an ancient tongue i cannot fathom,and motions for all of us to follow.Wordlessly twenty riders ride tall and proud,a battle cry forming on their lips.We canter to a stop in a forest clearing.Facing us is another rival clan,their emblem being that of a magnificent Eagle in flight.The two leaders ride up to each other.The representative of the other clan is a female,but she looks no less than capable of killing than anyone of the males present.She is a blond and her steed is snow white.Fire burns fiercely in her eyes and no one dares oppose her wisdom.For a fleeting instant,we lock eyes.I calmly meet her gaze,the only other female in the whole clearing.Briefly inclining her head in acknowledgement,she shouts in another unknown dialect and soon her clan follows.It is time for battle.

I shall not let my warped imagination twist your reality any further.Inspired by this new rage,i have resolved to write a book on this.Not that you care though.

Good night.