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You still dream of your birthplace, the city of Tirion upon the hills of Túna. The great white buildings reflected the light of Telperion and Laurelin unrelentingly, only providing relief to your eyes in the brief hours of dawn and dusk.
The undying lands; full of comforts and luxuries and desperate stagnation. Looking across the familiar landscapes that never change came to make you feel sick, a sickness that wormed itself into your feä, unsettled your very sense of self. You still dream of your birthplace, but they are not happy dreams.
Every day you startled awake with the feeling that this is all there will ever be. The same faces, the same roads, buildings and the same rolling hills of green grass, the same forests filled with the same trees. Every year the same fruits, meats, wines. The same fabrics, woven by the same hands, stitched to make the same clothes, styles changing slower than even the pace of the snail. No new smells to excite your nostrils, nor flavours to waken your taste buds.
The fetid stagnation was the knife pushing slowly into your heart, piercing a lung on the way in, making it impossible to breathe. The high handed, ever-same Valar were the hands that twisted the knife.
You leave, dedicating yourself to Finwë Nolofinwë. Despite the decades across the despondent violence of the ice, you still dream of your birthplace. You became familiar with the cold rot of fingertips and extremities, familiar with the taste of meat from those you loved. Yet, you still dream of your birthplace.
You reached the new and open lands of Middle Earth, filled with endless possibilities and new peoples. The air felt alive with optimism. Despite it all, you have made it. Despite it all, each night you are still haunted by nightmares of your birthplace. Neverending nightmares of Tirion, upon the hills of Túna.
You hope to never return.