A close friend, if you could call him that, once told me that keeping a journal was a way for the morally weak to justify their own actions. His theory orbited the center thought that writing and doing could never coexist in one person. Those that wrote about their deeds had ulterior motives other than the deeds themselves. He’d be rolling in his grave if he knew I was keeping a journal now.
Old Sam, when he wasn’t scheming, would occasionally say ‘Great persons consumed their life with deeds, not with writing about it every day of the week’. Old Sam typically followed that eloquent dialogue up with a scowl and a boot to the ribs of our band’s scribe. Old Sam was an ass.
Normally that kind of talk would be quickly forgotten around the rank and file of veteran soldiers, but not with Old Sam. You see… Old Sam was in charge. As a result, it’s taken me five years to start writing this, since the only pen and paper allowed in the Verdant Land’s Free Brigade belonged to the official record keeper. And despite all the abuse our merry band inflicted on the scribe, he’d never give up paper unless you pried it from his cold dead hands.
I guess that’s where I should start my story…
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