diary part 1

I open my eyes every morning and hear the blaring wake up call. What’s the point is usually the first thought that crosses my mind. Waking up in Victory Mansions is anything but victorious. I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom but what really gets me angry is for most of the people around me they don’t feel the same way. They think this is normal; the smell of cabbage, the hungriness in their stomach, everything. But I know what’s really going on. Big Brother, he doesn’t intimidate me. But I can’t let anyone else know or I’m a dead man. The telescreens watch me every second of every day. I can’t get away, I’m never alone. What I’m doing right now will kill me sometime or later. But I feel I must do this for future generations. I went to the flee market and bought this diary and a sense of freedom washes over me when I write. This feeling, it is addictive yet frightening. Everyone should feel it.

The one thing I feel I can look forward to is a sense of purpose and I get that at Ministry of Truth where I work. I know deep down that the information I am changing is a lie, but isn’t it all? Isn’t it all a lie. So I don’t really care if the light looks better for Big Brother because everything he says seems to come true. I wait for the paper rolls, that is my life. The cubicle is menacing and lonely and the people, they are vicious. They peer at mr from over their work, thinking that I am the traitor. The girl with the dark hair gives me such fury it scares me. She wears the same non-figure flattering overall with the red sash indicating anti-sex. I hate her for it. The government is stupid. Yes I said it. They want to wipe out sex, one thing that is worth living for in what has become of this world. But in the end she intrigues me.

The girl with the dark hair follows me. She knows what I am up to, I just know it. She’s going to rat me out. I’m going to die. But what if I kill her first?

The government treats us all the same. Even if some of us are more physically capable than others. My ulcers are painful beyond words. The searing pain that is accompanied with physical jerks in the morning are unbearable. But can I do anything about it? NO! No I can’t because this is a messed up place. The trainer yells at me, “Smith, reach. Smith try harder. Smith be normal.” But I can’t. Because I am different.

Proles have it lucky. They don’t live by Big Brother’s standards. I wish I were a prole. Well, maybe not but I can only imagine how much easier they must have it.