More than two months have passed since last I set pen to paper here in this humble diary. My previous assertion that I am not a man inclined to examine and record his life in writing is only confirmed.
My life has taken on a strange simplicity over the winter. The woodcarver's house abuts a large section of old-growth forest. Many hours have been spent wandering its pathless depths, unmolested by sight or sound of my fellow man. There aren't many environs where I feel entirely comfortable and "at home", but among the towering oaks and maples, my thoughts become quiet.
My usefulness may have been reduced over the past year, by poison and weakness and an ill temper, but I am still useful. An excess of time being left to my own devices inspired me to cut more firewood than was needed for myself. I placed the first extra bundle at a neighbor's doorstep, quietly and without disturbing the family. The next day, it was two bundles, placed at two other homes. It seemed rather silly at first. Like a child playing some sort of prank in the darkness. But I could not deny that I felt a certain warmth and satisfaction in my breast, knowing that the efforts of my body were benefiting those beyond myself once more. After all, it is one of the most basic impulses of a man's existence, to provide for others and not only himself.
And yet, despite this idyllic little scene in which I find myself living, I am obliged to venture forth and visit town now and again. I mind not the crowded byways, the clamor of wagons and the merchants' hawking. It is the faces that I must be wary of. Ever I vow that I am not the man I used to be, and ever I have proven myself wrong on that count. What curse follows me through the years and refuses to leave me in peace, I do not know. The sweet bliss of a flask in one hand and a maiden in the other, the promise of relief and release, of one night where the ghosts are silent and bitter hopes can be imagined into reality; these have been the downfall of better men than I.
With my uncle and the woodcarver both departed, there is none I can speak to of these things.
The fortune-teller comes to my mind often.
