Interesting things have been happening
Smeagol and Primula have been determined to keep me in Bree. Ivy, however, is not the most constant presence in my life. I enjoy her company, but she has this peculiar habit of vanishing at random. She says it is because she is weak and needs to return home to gather her strength. It's all very peculiar, and Smeagol gets especially angry when she vanishes right in front of me.
I've been feeling rather odd lately. Whenever I enter this side room of the Inn we are staying at, there are the most interesting people. There's this man that says he is a pirate, a corsaire...he's the most interesting and queer fellow I have met in a long time. He is entertaining in a way, and takes great pride in sitting on a blue couch in the corner. There is also the strangest man who wears a mask. I don't see him terribly often, but he is still intriguing. Smeagol has a habit of pulling me back into the Inn whenever I get a chance to speak with that man. When I am in that room, I also have the most heart wrenching feeling of despair. I hurt in such an odd way, that I'm not exactly sure how to explain it. It makes my visits brief. Yesterday, I talked to a person that Smeagol calls the writer. My belief is that the pain comes from this person. I also said hello to a person that the writer was speaking to. It wasn't a good time, however, because Smeagol cursed me and pulled me back into the Inn. He says that he wishes he had been able to break the bond between the writer and I but that he couldn't. I wonder what he means by that.
The Inn is dreadfully boring. I want to go outside and walk in the grass. My feet are tired of hard packed dirt and wood. I want something more out of all of this. I want to...to...taste everything, whatever that means. I want to talk to people. Primula, mother, won't let me go either without Smeagol or her. Why, I'm more than a tweenager. I should be able to do whatever I like.
I should like to go on a walk.
I've been feeling rather odd lately. Whenever I enter this side room of the Inn we are staying at, there are the most interesting people. There's this man that says he is a pirate, a corsaire...he's the most interesting and queer fellow I have met in a long time. He is entertaining in a way, and takes great pride in sitting on a blue couch in the corner. There is also the strangest man who wears a mask. I don't see him terribly often, but he is still intriguing. Smeagol has a habit of pulling me back into the Inn whenever I get a chance to speak with that man. When I am in that room, I also have the most heart wrenching feeling of despair. I hurt in such an odd way, that I'm not exactly sure how to explain it. It makes my visits brief. Yesterday, I talked to a person that Smeagol calls the writer. My belief is that the pain comes from this person. I also said hello to a person that the writer was speaking to. It wasn't a good time, however, because Smeagol cursed me and pulled me back into the Inn. He says that he wishes he had been able to break the bond between the writer and I but that he couldn't. I wonder what he means by that.
The Inn is dreadfully boring. I want to go outside and walk in the grass. My feet are tired of hard packed dirt and wood. I want something more out of all of this. I want to...to...taste everything, whatever that means. I want to talk to people. Primula, mother, won't let me go either without Smeagol or her. Why, I'm more than a tweenager. I should be able to do whatever I like.
I should like to go on a walk.