I close my eyes and I can see seas of green as far as the eye can see. Fields of corn, the smell of honeycakes freshly baked as Mother oft used to bake. But they are but a distant memory, vivid as they are. The golden hall of Meduseld standing proud and tall over the horizon. The farmhands, my elder brother. Father. The girl over yonder riding her horse over the tall grassland. No doubt headed into Edoras as she so often did.
A man spends all of his youth wishing he could break free of the boundaries of home. The grass is always greener on the other side to use a popular turn of phrase.
Except is it? This life of mine I have led, the adventures I have had. There are times I would trade them all away to simply gaze upon that glorious sun in the bluest of skies, in those fields of corn by the family farm.
This night as she sleeps I gaze upon that girl over yonder, for she lies with me between the sheets by some queer chance of fate. A very queer and very happy circumstance indeed. The very same fate which has tormented me so over the years gifts me as it so occasionally does.
Yet I can not rest, I never can. I feel as though I can envision the very yarn being spun by fate's weavers. The shears drawing ever closer. All it would take would be one snip of that particular thread and the girl from over yonder would be gone forever. I can feel the spinners poised, sadists as they are in the night. Salivating twistedly as they oft have over the thoughts of my pain, and my misery.
Please don't.
I am not a man inclined to implore forces not of this world, to beg. But I am begging you now. Whatever gods are out there, whatever powers. If you can read my words I beg of you not to let them rob me of this. To weave the thread not to cut. For once. Heed my words.
I look to the past, I long for days gone by where I was free of this pain. The loneliness within. I blink and she is still there. But for how much longer?
I am as ever prone to sentimentality even as I vow against it. I have strived hard to keep this woman from you, my journal. But I have failed now for the third time in a row.
I could sink into these very sheets, wrap myself in her embrace and forget the world, as my eyes fell heavy then dream of those happier days. If I would but allow myself I could make them reality. Even in my present surroundings. As in the orchard. I felt so at peace there.
But I know better than that. There will never be such a time again, so much has happened, so much has wounded the soul. To ever be able to return to those fields of home.
And instead I lie awake, gripped as I am with fear. Of history in repetition ad infinitum. A prison of the mind. I am unable to even express myself through it.
