Bree. Such an insignificant little place, yet the pomposity within these hedge walls is quite overwhelming in its frequency. Every man, dwarf and halfling seems to be for himself, barely stretching their horizons beyond the nearest tavern. It was quite a shock returning from so long alone in my own thoughts and company to civilisation that stands in such stark contrast to that from which I have come. Melliea would oft tell me tales of Gondor her homeland, painting a vivid picture with words and eventually letters. How different these lands are from what she described? They follow such a failure to meet my expectations. I would do well not to dwell upon Melliea.
I digress as I so regularly do. Thoughts flitter through my mind like butterflies on the wind unsure of both their destination and how they may journey to it. Yet arrive they do. How can one contain such a myriad of flickering thoughts?
Sat in thought in the wilderness some months past, I contemplated how best to describe the thoughts to another. The analogy of being in a painting was the best I could arrive at. It seems that whoever paints the art of my life uses splashes of colour from every paint pallet at once, each a tiny dot of a thought or idea waiting to be drawn together to form the overall picture. Yet I fear that the painter of my life is over enthusiastic and flicks the many colours off in every direction at once. What it is to feel so torn?
I dance across the painting, leaving footsteps in the wet paint where once there stood great drawings of beautiful things.
Despite numerous warnings of the people who reside in Bree, I paid them little heed and was still shocked when I discovered cruelty first hand. Firstly, a stranger who burnt my book and then secondly, speaking to another stranger who had been stabbed not a week previously. As one can imagine, I found this rather disturbing in numerous ways. Who in their right mind would snatch a book from a stranger’s arms and toss it so carelessly in the fire? Who would go up to a stranger, demand money and then brutally bring forth a weapon when they failed to produce the required coinage?
In lands like these I fear that the painting of my life will soon become black with fear of death and mutilation. Yet is that no different from many other places? Nowhere seems to be safe these days and here seems safer than most. I fear I may have to keep my head down and continue with my work as best I can in the current circumstances.
Knowledge seeps into the wide gaps in my mind, oozing down like treacle to slowly fill in some of the blanks, only for me to find ten more blanks for every one I fill. Curiosity killed the cat and one day, curiosity shall kill me.
