I cannot read or write, but I will burn my important thoughts to the front of my mind.
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Around every bend, there seems to be a new enemy—for every truth, there's three more lies. For every victory, two more loses. There's no break to what is happening, and I can hardly spend time lazing in The Prancing Pony without being dragged into the back with a sword at my throat, I cannot walk the streets of Bree-town without someone watching my every move from the shadows.
I've sold my devotion to being a vigilante; I am nearly useless, the weakest, and can hardly fathom how I have survived as long as I has. And as useless as everyone knows I am, it's no secret how terrible of things I have done and aided. Deny it as much as you may, a chain of my actions has led to the pain of an unbearable amount. I've driven away one of the last few people who has completely forgiven me for my actions, and given them reason to finally find contempt in me.
I will grow cold, I will train to fight, and I will deny the guilt brewing inside of me. I cannot let my mind turn onto those counting on me, nor let my loyalties stray.
