My appetite for writing grows less and less as with every attempt at keeping a journal. The mere thought that someone might take a read within sends a shiver down my spine to the extent I even censor my own writings. Most of the time, I simply jot down my thoughts on paper then tear them up. This book is beginning to look a little thin. I do not know why, it is not as if I have the risk of a child seeing them anymore. I have spent a long time in the wilderness, a very long time. Looking at the desolate cobbles of Bree now in comparison to the vibrancy of Dol Amroth. With all it's merchants and trade and sailors there were a great number of opportunities there. Not to mention the women, I began to grow sweet on a particular barmaid I met there for a short time. Couldn't risk it, I had to keep moving. I left for Gondor without Kriea, even though I knew she was bearing my child. It will be the last time I will let myself grow this attached. I'm sure I've said this before. Yet for all Dol Amroth's charms the men and women I had brought with me I had a duty to bring them home. To their families, their wives and their children.
The desire for a human connection at once compels me yet repulses me at the same time. You can eloquently dismiss the desire all you like even convince those around that you are content. But deep down, Seaver, you are not. I yearn for something yet each loss desensitizes me all the more to further loss. But I fear it, letting any one get too close. I truly do. The streets of Bree bore me. Delinor was a welcome face, there was also a lass that amused me. Admittedly too young. But this town is utterly devoid of all joy. And I grow restless. I should have and could have gone on to Dale, I could have gone on to see the Lonely Mountain. Why did I come back? Some false hope that Rannie may be there. Some sense of duty to the family I have and know are out there. Familiarity? Familiarity bores me! I have hunted treasure, guarded precious cargo, scouted for warbands and slain trolls. Though no one would ever believe me and I never have shared the story. I even gained the confidence of an Elf. Who gifted me something so valuable that monetarily it is worth more than anything within the realms of men. Who called me wise beyond my years! She was like a creature from my dreams, so beautiful. I can't simply spend my days like this. I should have boarded one of the many ships in the port and gone to sea rather than have come back. There I would have had rum aplenty and plenty of wenches to keep me satiated. There was a time I would have frowned upon the outrageous behaviour I have engaged in. My memory has been of late become so patchy in the drunken haze I once used to reprimand others for I find myself struggling for details with the frustration of it all. What to do now, Seaver. What to do now... You have riches beyond your wildest dreams. At the age of three and twenty men should not have everything. Riches that every pauper from here to Pelargir would come hunting for were they to know of their existence. It is frightfully dull. Each and every time you foresake your wealth you end up shitting even more gold. Poor you, I hear the sarcastic replies. Still, I vastly understate my fortunes when and where I can. No one has any notion of it in truth. How easy it must have been to father, who's every desire was to be noticed. My nature is diametrically opposed. I can't help but wonder whether I would have been more content with a simpler life had I not been dragged from the farm so young. And simply grew happy with my lot.
