First Time Journaling

Alright, so old man Sato thinks I should write in this damn journal. He says it'll help me sort out my messed-up thoughts. Well, I don't see how scribbling on paper is gonna fix anything. But hey, I'll give it a shot.
 
I'm... Marcus Rivers, or whatever. Names are just words, right? They don't mean a damn thing. Life's been a rollercoaster lately, filled with rage and confusion. I've been swinging that damn hammer at Sato's Smithy, muscles aching and mind spinning. It's hard work, but it's a distraction from the chaos in my head.
 
Master Sato, that old geezer, thinks he's got all the answers. He yammers on about channeling my rage and communing with my ancestors. Spirits and all that crap. I don't get it, but I guess I'm stuck here, so might as well play along.
 
Dunwell, this shithole town. Just a bunch of worn-down buildings and people scraping by. Nights at The Sable are wild, fights breaking out over the stupidest shit. I've thrown my fists around more times than I can count, and there have been nights I can't remember, lost in a haze of booze and whatever else I could get my hands on.
 
And let's not forget The Midnight Orchid, a damn brothel. I've stumbled through those doors a few too many times, chasing a high to numb the pain. Drugs, women, it's all a blur of reckless indulgence. I remember a girl named Isabella, her fiery spirit matched my own for a night. Then there was Emily, with eyes like the ocean, and a wildness in her touch. These women, just fleeting moments of pleasure in this messed-up life.
 
Why the hell am I even writing this? Sato said it might help me make sense of things. Bullshit. I don't know if these scribbles will do a damn thing, but I'll keep going. Maybe one day I'll look back at this mess and see some twisted clarity. Or maybe it'll all end up in the fire, just like the rest of my fucked-up life.