Found:
I hate this. I hate sitting idle, twiddling my thumbs, waiting to heal. I hate having nothing to do, nothing to occupy my hands and mind. I hate the ceaseless boredom, watching the shadows grow and fade, day after day in this wretched little hut.
I want to be gone from here.
But I can't leave. Not yet.
I promised to not strain myself. I promised to prove this curse business to be untrue. It would hardly work in my favour if, the second he leaves, I injure myself even further by stubbornly pressing forwards when I know that, for now, I simply have to wait.
But waiting is all I seem to do.
I have my ideas. I have my plans. I have my dreams for the future, dreams that will never be realised, and thus, in defeat, I settle for the next best thing. Second best. Is that even worth falling out of bed for?
But what, in this cold harsh reality, is worth it?
Friendships. Love. Warmth. Respect. Home. Family. All of the things I have spent so long without. All of the things I have spent so long avoiding. All of the things I have spent so long running from, turning my back upon the possibilities and unspoken promises.
Obligations much be filled. Promises must be kept.
I know what I should do.
I should do what has to be done. I should do that which is necessary. Haven't I always? However painful or unpleasant, however entertaining or meaningless in the end, haven't I always done that which needed to be done? That path, that course, that philosophy, has always kept me going. It has always seen me triumph in the end. It has always worked out for me, one way or another.
I will do what I must.
