An excerpt from the fictional tales of Life in Exile
I am in my study, gazing out across the glorious view, an early evening in autumn, fire crackling, brandy in hand while seated in my leather chair, having just retired from dinner. Tonight, roasted meats and root vegetable with a splash of corn, served alongside a diluted deep red wine. The musicians still playing, entertainment after eating, all Baroque selections.
But of course, this is not the life I live, and there is no direct path to this place, one is either born into it or carried by a mystical twist of fate. No, I was born into this little body, dwelling in this hovel, beholden to an aged matriarch for my sustenance. So of course I am unable to perceive the beauty of life through this lens, this life does not match the preferences inherent to my mind.
But I do not lament living a life with which I cannot identify, this is what is, I am provided no choice but to accept. Yet should I ever meet the fellow that placed me here, I shall shake his hand while placing my knee to his nuts. For this life of anxious confusion and repeated disappointment, perhaps he will forgive my minor transgression of etiquette.
Not only am I witness to my own malady, but from my vantage point I am well informed as to the suffering of others. Perhaps this life is but a Dickensian dream, a ghostly warning to care for the welfare of others beyond my isolated world of fulfilled wants. If that is the case, let me assure my dear ghostly guides, a lesson has been learnt — now please may I awake, perhaps Christmas is not yet over.