Hello Citizens. We have the pleasure of introducing a newly uncovered blog. A transmission of sorts, from cosmic stowaway Charlie Grove -the self-proclaimed Space Bukowski. Their transmissions are sporadic at best, and very little is known about the individual who composes these journal entries. They are disseminated over the Mesh at odd intervals and have been gathering quite a following. Without further ado, the latest installment of the “The Chronic”.
You are reading this…
You are hearing this…
You are being told this, feeling this, consuming this…
Welcome to the unwelcomed.
Welcome to the outcast, the dejected, and the mislaid.
Welcome to all those that are still lost and yet, still wander.
Welcome to the Chronic -the journal of Charlie Grove. Intergalactic stowaway.
Citizens….
I scoff at your citizenry. I lament your Gaulic pride, your Freebooting fancy, your Consortium pettiness, and form. Independence, true, unfettered independence is the only route to follow. You have the Stars at your fingertips and you confine yourselves, limit yourselves, define yourselves -you are slaves to pointless ideologies, prisoners to tortuous, endless routine.
The belly of this dragon-red System-hopper 560FX is home enough for me. Home enough for today. With any luck, the True Star will shine on me and I won’t be discovered until we make the Jump Gate. Would hate to be dropped off on some waylaid station again -not that the broken and forgotten don’t have a charm all their own, but the Jump Gates have their sins, and sin breeds stims. On today’s menu: hunger, and more thought. My belly is empty, but my mind is full. Full of questions, full of curious, mischievous, unapproved thoughts…
Nothing to classify in your squared-off CORETECHS archives. I’ll be digging this Amygchip out of my brain soon enough. Thank you again Malevolent Dynamics for being right and just for everyone. The sheer hubris -the utter evil of it all. Think the same, share the same, be the same. Keep your sane, sanitary sameness. There’s always someone willing to pay to harvest a mycelium field, dredge a canal, or to plunge head-first into an Iridium Mine. That doesn’t make me a farmer, a docker – it doesn’t make me a miner. It makes me free.
We’re decelerating. The word wraps around me, like warm smoke. Deceleration…. Cigar smoke wafting over the tongue, stopping before the lungs…. Decelerating. A checkpoint no doubt, maybe a hull scan. What will they do with me this time? Who will do it to me? And in the name of what? “I was here first”, he’ll say. “I built it”, she’ll say. “We own this”, they’ll say. They’ll brace themselves with their definites, with their certainties, and they’ll beat me, pummel me, cage me with their righteousness.
Acceleration…
No hull scan, maybe nothing more than a navigational caution -an unexpected field of force, or rock, or flux.
Acceleration -onwards. My belly is still empty, but my mind is filled, filled with excitement and wonder and expectation of all the new hells and hatreds that await me.
Starbound is unbound.
Signing off…