I have found in myself little desire to write of late. Even looking at the quill is enough to make me change my mind about putting ink to parchment. I know not why.
Perhaps it is to do with my conversations with Vaenthal and the decision we reached. Perhaps it is a sickness for home or the continued feeling I have of being completely misplaced. Perhaps my thoughts are too crowded with what could have been, what may be and what should not be. Is it worry or apathy that stills my hand?
I drift through the streets of Bree, through day after day, uncertain and lost. I smile at the appropriate times, make an effort to jest and laugh, to speak and see. Still, I find my tolerance is so much less than it was, especially toward those who show little manners or seek to involve themselves in my life without invitation. Where once I may have felt guilty for such outbursts I now care not a whit.
Did my heart depart along with the one to give me this ring? Or did I lack it before we met?
Has life in my homeland changed me so drastically? Or is this but a reaction to recent events?
In the blink of an eye, the situation changes. That which was gained is lost. That which was lost is returned. This world is barely recognisable now and I feel that I do not belong.
