The silent pain burns within me, a never ending fire of emotion as I sit
in solitude by the window.
I run my eyes over the whispering hills in the distance, watching their
beauty, admiring their strength.
Why does that strength not exist within me? Maybe I'm not worthy. Maybe
I don't want to be.
Do I enjoy this pain?
Moving from my pirch on the window sill, eyes downcast, I approach the
bed, a heart sinking tune murmering between my lips.
The tune suits my ever gloomy mood, for it is sad, expressing well the
depression of my spirit, showing me to be my own tormentor. My own
hatred.
I lay down and prepare myself for when I will wake. All I have waiting
is melancholia. I'm not eager to embrace it once again. Not for another
painful day of 'life'.
All that awaits is sadness, you see... and sadness, never ends.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Miraman, in the year 330 AF.