(33)
The mind’s a jumble. I’m too much a burden to people I’d love to bundle myself up and roll down a hill to some spiky bush where people won’t find me. Nobody can promise happiness, only He can. I can never be consistently pleasant - strangely I’d want to, be. Even the self is surprised by the amount of effort I put nowadays, not that it actually equate to any commendable result. People are silly to cry over small things like static typed words, and short calls too early in the morning, small jokes. Words are our biggest weakness aren’t they. If the beach is near, the sea might calm me down, like it often does, and the piercing sun would be mean, but useful. Ignorance is of course bliss, as I have many times witness (in both pleasant surprises and sharp slaps) - the only problem is the ability to be ignorant would last only for so long, and when the shielding screen suddenly evaporates, the blast is stronger, the fall sharper, and you wish you cared just a little bit earlier. Doesn’t it all boil down to our silent want to be a better person?
And it disturbs me, this detachment from the brewing action. The wind doesn’t blow any news here.
Eowyn’s lingers:
“’What do you fear my lady?’
‘A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them and all chance of valor has gone beyond beyond recall or desire.’”
