I have always had a love for writing, though keeping a volume on my adventures never struck me as something useful. I cannot, even now as I write these words, decide why I have chosen to write one at all. Perhaps it is the annoying loneliness that keeps the cracks in my heart as open wounds, or more yet the boredom of patience. I sit here in these trees, waiting for this great "change" to come about, and all I can think of is that town. It has taken me a few days to recognize this feeling. This...homesickness. The dirty streets, tattered homes, and an inn that constantly smells of drink and excrement. It is nothing to miss, but it is where I've spent a good bit of time these last years.
In reality, that place has nothing to do with what I had in mind to write. Why, then, do I choose to speak to these pages about my life, when it is Bree that I really miss? I'm not entirely sure, now. It made sense when first my pen found paper. All the same, I will continue and hope that at least something of my life will be understood by someone one day. In these pages I hope to give a glimpse of my life. Perhaps it will simply become a thing for me to look back and read again when I am old and decrepit - a reality that I will soon have to come to accept. Perhaps it is meant for someone else to read and remember me by if I am struck dead before the next full moon.
Oh, the moon. It smiles down upon me with a blinding light that reminds me faintly of my birth place. Only faintly. This light is cold and warm at the same time. Illuminating my pages and almost encouraging the words from my fingers. Perhaps it is not fate that guides our lives, but the moon and the sun themselves. The light and dark of the world, ever rotating to create balance. I've seen this balance - not within my own life, but in others'. Seen the dark and the light, the good and the evil, the pain and the...pleasure. I believe that might be what true beauty is, if it exists at all.
I have rambled on and accomplished nothing now, simply because I did not wish to waste pages by ripping out what I believe to be terribly written words. It is a very strange thing to sit here, waiting for something I'm not even sure is something. How will it happen? When? Will my ears go? Will the moon look the same? A million questions that HE never bothered to answer as he ripped my decision from me. But we will get there; I suppose whoever is reading this will be wanting the full story after all. I have never actually read the journal of another soul, so hold no expectations. Now, I shall begin.
