Brynleigh

It's a good thing that Jack awoke me before dawn this morning, though I was irritated at first with his incessant stomping and snorting outside the door. The fair weather has him restless and wanting to move about, and though I snapped at him to take his gargantuan black and white hide away from the house, I have to feel rather grateful now, as I have much to record here before I start my day's work. 

Oh, where to begin? I think I must've encountered half of Bree last night, in the space of just a few hours. 

I return! The day is worn down now, the sun lowering in the sky, and the air taking on a nasty, chilly bite. But I want to write a bit more before I head into town for my evening drink at the Pony. Though, I wonder if I should even bother...seems every time I step through the south-gate, new trouble is brewing somewhere.

Why did I finish my last entry with the words "what may come"? I spoke in haste, it seems, for yesterday was another whirlpool of madness, both terrible and lovely. Will life ever just calm down for a day or a week or a month? Bree seems to be some sort of hub for insanity of all kinds...as if it draws folk of passion, both wicked and good, from all corners of Middle Earth, concentrating them into the hedged walls of this little town and tumbling them together.

I've sat here and stared at this blank page for nigh an hour now. I had to recork my inkwell for fear it would run dry while I lingered, tortured and indecisive, the pale ivory expanse of parchment mocking me... encouraging me?...ah, who knows.

Now, if only my hands would stop shaking, I might be able to record something.

Conrob.

I've sat another twenty minutes at least. I can't write about him. Not yet. Coward that I am.

It feels peculiar to have shorn hair once again. The fire is burning to keep out the winter chill. I do not know why I rode into town the nights past. Only so long you can pace the confines of your study. What to occupy myself with I wonder. There's only so long you can do the books and I would hardly proclaim crossing the i's and dotting the t's and toiling over pages brimming with numbers my idea of leisure. No, I needed to get out of there.

I find that I have to hold myself back from picking up this journal and spilling all my thoughts, feeling, hopes, and wishes into its pages. And yet, why do I hesitate so? Why am I afraid of my own mind? My own thoughts?