:::About your signature quote, is the French Knight a book, play, or what?:::
patio asked that question in wonderwoman's topic: “poem of mine” I’ll copy and paste my reply here for you.
patio:
You're welcome and thank you for your response and question. "The French Knight" is a mysterios character. It's a personna that slowly eased itself into my life, not quite an alter ego, and yet somehow adjoined to me in some manner. It happened when I first came here a long time ago, back when this was just a small neighborhood and everyone knew everyone else.
The French Knight still believes in chivalry and gallantry and is very quick to defend a lady in distress. He never uses profanity or off-color humor (actually he uses no humor at all!) and is just as prone to dismount his white steed, sit upon a rock overlooking some serene valley, and write a poem than he is to challenge a dragon to a fight to the death.
Sad to say, I don't see much of him anymore. He used to pop up in my posts (he's not allowed to register so he must use my account) and regularly chat with waiting (for whom he as the utmost respect as she is very outspoken for a lady) and of course he always enjoys talking to the Red Horse Woman for they share a common love of noble steeds.
He's in love with Seven Of Nine (although he would never openly admit it) and in his eyes she is the princess in the tower which, regardless of how much he tries,he is unable to scale to 'rescue' her. (What makes the poor chap think that she is in need of rescue?) Seven of Nine is always kind to the French Knight and one has to imagine that she sees him as perhaps no one else is able and she is kind enough to allow him his illusion. He is after all quite harmless.
He is a figment which exists in the mists which enshroud and cling to the outer borders of the mind. Like a shadow that disturbs the mists at dawn, at times he appears sihouetted against the pale dawn light and one is tempted to believe but only for an instant. The mist swirls and the morning sun pierces it's fragile fabric and the knight vanishes as the cold, hard light of reality evaporates the delicate mists and the fantasies and wonders of things that, might and perhaps should be, are replaced by the mundane realities which are so glibly termed 'the real world.'
I envy the naieve knight who is neither bound nor fettered by the 'realities' with which we are forced to contend. I envy his freedom to believe beyond the limits placed by logic, to hope beyond the dictates of reason, his courage to defend his timeless convictions and to dwell in that magical land where all things are possible, incorruptible by time or circumstances. I see him from time to time in those fragile, wispy morning mists standing there and pitying me.
So there you have it. You are the first to ever ask about the knight. You may see his comments here although he seldom visits anymore. If you are lucky and if he takes a liking to you, you may even see him when you least expect it, standing there on that white steed and dressed in full armor peering at you just slightly beyond the borders of your mind. He will only be there for an instant but if you ever see him, I assure you, you will never forget him.
