I’m tired in my bed today, without the energy to go out. Did I catch a cold? Or is it a more profound reason that makes me so apathetic. I’ve known many of these days on Earth when I lost all motivation. But of course I didn’t expect to have of them so soon, in Modry, with a huge island to explore. I prepare myself a tea with an herb akin to thyme I had bought at the market. Perhaps the warm liquid will bring back some vitality to my limbs. Suddenly I feel very lonely. I’m here alone. Nobody knows where I am. I think of my parents, my mother, so far away. My mother who loved me so much, whom I abandoned so lightly. I know I did the right choice, I know that someday I will see her again, but right now all I feel is sadness and I start sobbing thinking of her loving arms, and how right now she can’t comfort me, no one can comfort me. It soothes me to cry, as it puts an emotion, a name, on the emptiness I was feeling. I walk to the window and watch the landscape, the lake Farrayne still of a blue gray, the clouds in the sky that seem to be gathering, announcing rain in few hours, the mountains in the distance and the volcano, starting to be hidden by clouds and mist. Funnily, I don’t have a view on the lake of Cyg and the mountains there from my window, perhaps to prevent me brooding too much about the Ghost Bridge. From Modry there doesn’t seem to be a way to communicate directly with Earth. There’s no internet, and the phone grid only connects the different towns in Modry. I haven’t seen any airplane or airport, and I wonder if they have airplanes. I think they don’t. I realize I haven’t yet described how Modrians look like, for there is nothing extraordinary about them.
Why am I writing this diary is another question I should seek answer for. Will I carry it with me on the Ghost Bridge, or will I try to send it back to my family. I’ve sold my laptop a year ago, to pay for the expenses of my trips, and I wouldn’t be able to type it. I ignore if they have copiers here in Modry, and I’ll probably find out when I’ll go to the library. I’ve noticed a strange thing though, all the texts I’ve seen around the city are hand written.
I write because it helps me think and clear my mind. So for now, it is safe to say I write for myself more than for others. I write because I miss oil painting. With all my trips, I haven’t painted much in the last two years. Is it because of the trips though, my impossibility to carry too many canvases all along with me, or is it just an empty excuse to keep guilt at bay. I haven’t been very inspired. Otherwise it wouldn’t have disturbed me to paint on a wall and leave the painting there, behind me. After all what sense is there to be too attached to material possessions, or even art works. What matters most is the journey, the process of painting, and not the final result. But as I write these words I’m not sure I’m myself convinced of what I state. I write because I’m not ready yet to make another leap of faith toward Cyg. I somehow know I have to wait until I’ll feel entirely peaceful with the idea of stepping on the Ghost Bridge before doing so. Is it fear that is keeping me in Eincyg, or lack of information, or perhaps the two are the same. What matters for now is that Eincyg is my new home, for several weeks, several months, and I should accommodate myself with that idea. Everywhere I go, people recognize me as a foreigner, and they ask me why I am in Modry, and whenever they hear I am there for the gate between worlds they treat me differently, with a superstitious respect varying according to people.
I feel better now and decide to go out.