#mysanityisreceipted

It is a radiant afternoon. Golden, idyllic, practically designed for poetry, outdoor lounging, and perhaps a gentle flirtation under the blooming trees. And yet—AND YET—where am I?

Not outside.

Not enjoying life.

Not existing like a normal, emotionally stable elf.

No. I have spent the ENTIRE day buried under an avalanche of paperwork.

And we're only MID-AFTERNOON, MIND YOU. Sifting through scrolls and records and forms I SWEAR were filed centuries ago, except apparently no one can find the right one when needed. And so who gets to search through the Archives like a miserable parchment mole? Me.

I have reviewed patrol logs. I have cross-referenced inventories. I have written so many requisition forms that my handwriting now looks like it was produced by a sleep-deprived squirrel with a crayon.

My elbows are itchy. Do you hear me? I have rash-like patches forming on the insides of my elbows because of how STRESSED I am. I didn't even know that could happen from paperwork. Is this what mortal aging feels like?? I fear I am developing an allergy to forms. Or maths. Or taxes.

Probably all of them.

I can hear the wind through the trees. I can see the golden light on the riverbanks. The squirrels are LIVING. The flowers are FLOURISHING. Meanwhile, I am hunched like Gollum over a ledger trying to decipher someone's handwriting (which, incidentally, resembles the aftermath of an ink-splattered battlefield).

I hate it. I hate it. I want to lie on the grass. I want to kiss the sky. I want to commit arson against the entire administrative system of Imladris. Respectfully.

TAXES ARE A SCOURGE UPON THIS EARTH AND I REFUSE TO SUFFER IN SILENCE.

Who invented taxes. WHO. I demand names. I demand a trial.

I demand to be granted a ceremonial sword and five minutes alone in a dimly lit room with whoever looked at a peaceful society and said, “You know what would make this better? MATH. Let’s make everyone do MATH. Every. Year.”

Do you know what I have done today? I have calculated expenses.

I have cross-checked scrolls.

I have squinted at decimal points and argued with Erestor about what counts as a ‘personal horse-related expense.’ I have aged. I have transcended. I am now a ghost, haunting my own ledger.

Tell me why I, a poet, a musician, a beloved child of the stars, am being forced to WRANGLE NUMBERS like some peasant in a medieval fever dream. Is this my fate? Did I come into being for THIS? To decide if Glorfindel’s fifth tunic is a “battle necessity” or a “flamboyant vanity purchase”? (spoiler: IT’S THE LATTER.)

And the forms. Oh, the forms. There's one for stable upkeep, one for ink usage, one for “miscellaneous feast expenditures” (which, by the way, is just code for “Lindir bought thirty-five apricot pastries again, please deduct accordingly”).

By mid-afternoon, right now, I was staring into the void of my fourth budget sheet, muttering “I could fake my own death and move to the woods.” I am this close to becoming a feral woodland elf who barters in moss and acorns.

Taxes are the enemy of art. Taxes are the death of whimsy. Taxes are a dark sorcery devised to break the spirit of the creative soul.