I haven't left my hut in three days. A perverse sense of melancholy has caught root in my heart, one I can't quite seem to shake. I have not been to visit Luke, for I am conscious that I must not intrude too heavily on the Lars couple. Even if Owen has given his tacit permission, his opinion could change on a whim and I shan't press my luck.
Nor have I been to Anchorhead, subsisting on the ration bars and desert roots I have in my store, with Rooh providing me with eopie milk. Nothing gives me much pleasure, let alone food.
I cannot even bring myself to talk my morning walk through the red ridges of the wastes to observe the sunrise which I once found so beautiful. I do not know what is wrong with me, or how to claw my way out of his dark hole. I try to remind myself that Luke needs me, but then treacherous thoughts whisper that he is better left alone with Owen and Beru, without my interference. Look what I did to Anakin, after all.
Yoda has tried to contact me, and I feel my old Master's presence and yet I fear if I speak to them they will know how far hope seems to have slipped through my grasp. We have progressed no further on forming a plan to combat the Empire, and in truth I fear all has been lost. What can two Jedi and two Force-strong infants do against the might of the Empire – against the Emperor who even Yoda could not best?
There is no joy to be found here, no satisfaction, no courage. All I see is despair and far and wide as the Dune sea – barren and devoid of life – and I cannot force a storm no matter how much I will it.
Rooh comes inside, squeezing her bulbous torso through my front door. She must sense my distress and has sought to comfort me, laying her snout on my lap and looking up at me with large sympathetic eyes. Or perhaps I am attributing sentience onto the creature because I am so lonely, and she is the only one who seems to care for my presence.
I wonder how much longer I can stand this.
