Yes, paint did exist in the First Age! But it was considered dye. Paint is a more...modern term, I suppose.
Revised, with the help of a lovely reviewer, spired-ivory. Thank you.

(FA 5; February 12)

It's been a few days since I have been able to write in the worthless book that I call a log. I can only acquire ink by burning wood and spitting on the ashes, so I hope my family members will not be too disgusted at my primitive ways of gaining supplies. I don't know how ink is made, but I have seen blue ink before, so I can only assume that it is some type of dye. Typical, that a royal family member would be so ignorant of a profession that others base their living on.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like to be a normal Elf—no such relations to the royal family except through ancestry of the first generation, since the First to Awake were considered the fathers of all Quendi (and all related, but not by blood). I am of the third, but it has been well over a thousand years. It astounds me how old I am, and how young the Men die, though they seem to age as quickly as...well...a domestic animal.

The Men in the lands below us I have not yet met, but they are Children of Eru as well. I know that there should be an unspoken respect between us. Hopefully.

I'm close to Thangorodrim now, and my senses are filled with dread. Now, my mind has come up with even more ways that Maitimo could be tortured with. I never knew I was capable of such thoughts until I came to Middle-earth with the burden of my sins as chains behind me.

It feels, whenever I pity myself, as if I drag them into the water and cross, hoping to drown and end my ways of living as a martyr, but the water is clever and refuses to give me the release I seek. Each time, I am brought to the surface once more, lungs filled with air, until I am dragged without warning underneath the placid, clear waters again. And then I am held beneath until I start to feel my diaphragm lock with deprivation of oxygen. I guess you could say I live a depressing life, but many do not see it for the mask of perserverance that I wear.

It's the same mask I'm wearing now, though what I really wish to do is fling myself onto the earth and allow my tears to water the flowers. I have a feeling the flowers will deny my tears because of my deeds, and my tears of self-pity, useless and still existing.

But there are no flowers in a land like this, near Angband.

Only the most persistent plants will try to survive this tainted ground. Even they are gnarled, and dead, greyed at the body and bent at the head.

Do I feel regret for deciding to risk my life to bring back Maedhros, though I could possible cause both of our deaths?

Only a little.

The rest of my emotional expanse is just filled with all sorts of disoriented feelings, all fitting under the category of confusion. I don't understand how one could possibly feel so confused, and hold it in without shouting 'Confound it all!" therefore attracting a respectful amount of orcs to the current location. Then, I remembered Maitimo, and I knew, oh, how I knew, he was even more so confused than I was, and he would not be able to make it through the day without wondering 'what if?'

What if. The universally hated phrase that you could put in front of a number of things; from your deepest regrets to your soaring, sky high achievements.

What if I hadn't decided to join the party of Fingolfin? I still wonder, but I knew I would have went regardless.

If you multipied the number of orcs in Angband by the number of orcs in all of the world, raised to the power of two hundred and forty-three, then you would be able to understand just a grain of how much I hate 'what ifs.'

Oh, I have just come to the cognizance that I am only writing about my confused thoughts. This isn't as much as a log for my journey as it was diary for my conflicting thoughts. My sincerest apologies, to whoever is in possession of this journal.

I feel tired. I have just consumed the least amount of bread possible, mixed in with a nibble of cheese. The wooden canteen that I store my water in is still filled with water, but only to the third mark now. I can see it. Eventually, I will run out of supplies and be forced to hunt with the bow strapped to my back, accompanied by the quiver of sixteen arrows that have been used numerous times.

Don't even remind me.

Currently, I am crossing Ard-galen. I was out of the realm of Hithlum quite a while ago, probably a fresh start of four hours. Thangorodrim is closer, and I feel that my demise is closer as well. Eru give me strength not to cower beneath the gates of Angband.

I'll need all of the blessings I can get.

Signed,
Fingon

So, this is the second journal entry! It may seem rushed, but don't worry; there are plenty more entries on when Fingon enters the cursed maze in the Great Gate of Angband.
What did you think?
Please point out any errors, in canon or grammar!