Bilbo: I’m old, Gandalf. I know I don’t look it, but I’m beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel… thin. Sort of stretched, like… butter scraped over too much bread. I need a holiday. A very long holiday. And I don’t expect I shall return. In fact I mean not to.
Bilbo: I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.
Gandalf: I think you should leave the ring behind, Bilbo. Is that so hard?
Bilbo: Well, no.
Bilbo: …and yes. Now it comes to it, I don’t feel like parting with it. It’s mine, I found it. It came to me!
Gandalf: There’s no need to get angry.
Bilbo: Well, if I’m angry, it’s your fault.
Bilbo: …it’s mine… my own… my precious…
Gandalf: Precious? It’s been called that before, but not by you.
Bilbo: Oh, what business is it of yours what I do with my own things?
Gandalf: I think you’ve had that ring quite long enough.
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowshiop of the Ring 2011
LIke Bilbo, I detested the thought of leaving the comfort of my home: the daily rituals, the dishes in order, tv at 7:30, my couples friends over for grilled burgers. But I was called, and knew I had to go. For to stay was death, and I’d been dying slowly, like the proverbial frog in the boiling pot. I had struggled, but there was no other way but to pack, put the house in order, and step out the door for the unwelcome, never-wished for, unknown trail ahead.