I am coming to an ending now, father. Is it finality, or just the end of one chapter and the beginning of another? I don't know. I had hoped to write more here, some words of wisdom or encouragement should this journal ever make it into the hands of another Half-blood. But as my time runs out I'm beginning to understand that anything I could say, any hints about where we belong that I have learned - they're all meaningless.
We may not be true Vistana but we're all wanderers at heart, and those who wander never walk a straight path. I think this is what madame Vadoma meant when she said I wouldn't like the answers I found if I went digging. If I rob my kin of their own paths by telling them the secrets I've learned then they will crave more, and more, and more - as I did. Better to make the journey unknowing, to gain the wisdom of experience so that their choices are their own and not manipulated by an unquenchable thirst of the unknown. That is how we find our Home. That is how we find where we belong. By living, by defining our own place in the world.
Home is something you make, not something you find. I wish I'd have understood that sooner. I hold no ill will toward madame Vadoma any longer. She tried to warn me and I chose not to listen. Choices, then, are what link us all together. As long as we giomorgo understand we share that link, we'll never truly be alone.
I will offer one item of aid to any brethren that may walk a similar path as mine. The origin of the Vistani people as sung by the clans of the Boem Tasque, written as is and without my own thoughts.
Interpret it as you will, brothers and sisters. Learn from it. But do not let it rule you.
The Splintering
Why do you wander, O maker of music?
Why do your strings weep?
Why do you starve?
Because I have no home.
Because I have no hope.
Because I have no harvest to reap.
Where are your roots, O wandering slave?
Where are your ancestors?
Where are your gardens of plenty?
Torn from the soil.
Torn from the memory.
Torn from the feeble hands of my children.
How can this be, O tearful wretch?
How can this happen?
How can this go on?
Because I murdered my friend.
Because I murdered my comfort.
Because I murdered my place in the sun.
Why did you do this, O miserable one?
Why did you murder?
Why did you kill the one you called friend?
He stole my true love.
He stole my own heart.
He stole my only reason to live.
What will you do, O cursed fool?
What will you suffer?
What will you do to make ammends?
Nothing but wander.
Nothing but starve.
Nothing but play my melancholy violin.
When will it end, O pitiable fetch?
When will it rest?
When will it all be over for you?
Never, never, never, never, never...
To my friends, endari-vitir.
All Paths Converge.