I wonder at the human urge to chronicle daily life in writing, especially when a writer perceives momentous times, or the whispers of some great adventure.
Perhaps this is why I write these words even now. Not an hour ago, I arrived here in a remote region of the Literary Republic of Shields Libraria. My possessions are naught but the clothes I wear and what I can carry on my back. I come in self-imposed exile, spurred by the growing shadow of Finals.
I know not what to expect in the long days ahead, yet even in my drab surroundings I sense a story to tell, if not an adventure.
Thus begins my chronicle of my stay.
My arrival was all but ignored by the locals, most of whom offered little more than disinterested glances before returning to their business. They are a rugged people, fiercely independent, speaking few words. Yet...an unspoken camaraderie binds us as we all seek solace in silence and isolation.
My accomodations are bare, yet adequate. A few chairs, a table. The area even has electricity, though I found to my dismay that the sockets are incompatible with my SoulPlayer. I have batteries, thank goodness, but I may be forced to more traveled parts of Shields Libraria should they run out.
Still, for the time time I have music, one of my few comforts. I brought along a good collection as well, one that should suffice until the end of my exile. I am currently listening to the Finale from Dragonheart.
Modern communication in this place is lacking. The only telephones are located in the capital, Main Lobbyston, a significant journey from my current locale. The local landscape prevents proper functioning of mobile telephones as well, though I am not troubled as I do not have one. I can be reached by e-mail, which is delivered sporadically by an amicable old man on a mule-drawn cart. The Librarian government strictly prohibits the use of e-mail (except in designated facilities in Main Lobbyston), so it is with great stealth that I receive word from the outside world.
In fact, the Librarian government even prohibits the importation of foodstuffs, a policy enforced by regular patrols by the elite Librarian Security Guards. Thus, I keep my provisions in a hidden cache.
The time has come, I believe, to rendezvous with the e-mail man. Adieu, dear reader.
Hahaha!