Concerning the ranger;

he is both wild and careful.

The very woods he was hewn from, shake with magic — but he was not a craft of nature; he did not profess to control it either.

This striding stranger is the very essence of meekness, but not in sadness, in the choice to quiet down all of his tragedy even though he should not; the choice to stay silent though he is prone to be defiant and unconventional.

The striding stranger, the true human, what we all ought to be and yet none are.

The ranger sits in the corner observing, and no one knows if he is good or bad, too wise or too sheltered.

Perhaps it would be a tragedy that no one will ever understand him, that his soul has grown so old he can no longer relate to anything but the ancient woodland.

But perhaps it would be worse if they thought they knew him; if they could look him in those strong eyes and say ‘strider’, never wondering if he goes by another name when he is lonely.

If he told me his name I would probably think he loves me.

And If I were someone like him, banished for strength, professed recklessness, I wouldn’t bother ever knowing the world, or getting used to it.

Who we are matters more in the wild, but still, there’s a desire to see things unexpectedly and in shock let slip who we truly are.