I am recovering.

Recouperating.

Cast temporarily adrift from my employment and the routines of my life so that I can build myself back up. You wouldn’t think it to look upon me, but I am broken. It does not show in my walk or my speech or the manerisms I exhibit, but I am truly not the man I was.

“Recovering” might not be the right word.  It implies progress. Forward motion.

I wonder what assignment they might have given Jerry now that I’m not there for him to watch over. What might the guild have him doing while I’m here, directionless? I might even admit that I miss him. Not the constant ache sort of “miss” that I still feel for losing my sister, but every once and a while his face will drift into my mind and I’ll ponder curiously on what might be his current whereabouts.

Henrietta suggested that writing in a diary might expedite my convalescence – that having somewhere to record my thoughts and the events of my life might have the benifit of helping in the process of sorting these things out in my head and making me realize that my situation is not so bad. She said to start lightly and see where it goes.

And so I am writing.

I have yet to be convinced that it has been at all helpful.