Everything about this scene was familiar, from the old desk that bore an old blood stain, to the books and dim lamp light that made it impossible to tell night from day. But under her ink spotted fingers and the quill that scratched it wasn't some citizen's file, a ledger, or even some missive - though she owed several of those to a select few individuals as well. In this space, alone, she wrote for herself.
Walter returns to Thessilane taking Daryl for several weeks. I suspect it is unlikely that he spend much time tutoring him on architecture, as the summer quickly approaches. I seem to recall, the solstice festival tends to be debauc exceedingly lively near the coast. And they're both... young men. While I certainly support the educational aspects of their sabbatical, for a time I will find myself alone. Oddly, it has been quite a while since I have been alone in this sense. It is difficult to explain how or even why it unsettles me, it could be that their presence often serves as a welcome, sometimes necessary, distraction.
Perhaps this disquiet arises from the lack of internal quiet I have become accustom to. Words and those tiny bells have long gone, but still they merrily chime as if she braids my hair. I had help of course. I suppose I found sanity, or developed it. Would it be an appropriate analogy to liken it to a scar? A wound that had to be cauterized before it healed, I think. Then again, this presumes healing has taken place; does the infection remain?
The page has no answers for me and now I find myself to be atrocious company.
I have never been fond of journals.