Kando 12, 173

I'm sick of traveling. Plains, plains, plains. They never end. Sometimes they're broken by a tree-covered hill, but those are far and few. I thought that I'd feel so free with the whole sky in view. I could see sunrise and sunset. I could see birds miles and miles away. Instead I feel trapped. The sky is a cage, solid and smooth. The plains never end, and nothing but plains exist.

I'm talking like a fool. But that's how I feel.

I'm tired of sleeping on the ground. I'm sick of rain, sick of always watching for danger. I'm never safe. My muscles are strained and tense. I'm lonely. I never expected this loneliness.

I tell myself I'm fine. I thought I would be. But why do I wake up more weary every morning, never refreshed? Why do I sometimes cry myself to sleep at night?
I'm stronger than this. I can handle pain. I can't turn back. I'm too stubborn for that.

There's nothing for me back there. Well, besides sleeping in a real bed, the same bed every night. And having hot breakfasts and dinners. And having access to a real market, and my own vegetable patch, and having a job. And being able to hunt in woods familiar to me. And being around people who've grown up in the same culture, who I can relate to. Andک

.            .            .

What have I been writing?
A scappdrag tried to steal my haversack while I was writing. After I killed it I came to my senses. Enough self-pity. I really can't go back. I'll just get restless and set out again. Moving on.