Everyday is the same. Wake up, morning exercises, work, Two Minutes Hate, work, home, sleep. But was it always this way? I can't imagine life before the Revolution was like this. This is what Oceania was created to achieve. Equality for all people. The same for every person. The same for each day. But when the idea for Oceania came around, was this impoverished life part of the plan? This life in a run-down "mansion" where the lift doesn't work and where warmth is an unknown feeling? But I can't remember anything else. How do I know that this isn't just how life is? How do I know that something different, something better is even possible? But it has to be possible. If this is how life has always been, then there would never have been need for the Revolution. There has to be a better way.
Life is fear here. Any form of acting out could end in an end. If you don't live life as a routine, never hoping for something different, then you can't live.
Today at the Two Minutes Hate, I noticed two oddities. O'Brien looked at me, but in the half-second that our eyes met, I knew he could be an ally. Not that I'm thinking of rebellion, but I find comfort in knowing he feels the way I do. But the other note I made was of the dark-haired girl. I don't know what it is, perhaps her bold look, maybe her athletic, strong persona, or maybe she's just intimidating, but her glance pierced me. For some reason, it seemed like she was watching me, as if she was an amateur spy, but it makes me nervous. But I can't help feeling what I am.
Does the past even matter? Each day, I constantly change and edit what once was the truth, or what was accepted as the truth. When I go to the antique shop in the proles, I hold out a hope that the answers lie in the past. Maybe an old cabinet will tell me how life used to be. Maybe a glass paperweight will give hope to a better future. But with each day, something changes. A few people disappear. A different war is occurring against a different enemy and with a new ally. Who knows? Did I ever have relations with a prostitute? Did I ever have a mother, a father, a sister? All the evidence is located inside my mind. If I didn't believe it, did it actually take place? The truth isn't even the truth anymore. The truth is determined only by the Party's wishes. Whoever controls the past, controls the future.
Maybe the Thought Police will plug in my wire. Maybe I will be sentenced to a labor camp for my rebellious thoughts. Maybe the dark-haired girl will suspect me and turn my name in without any sort of legitimate proof. Maybe. But I can't care. I can't hold it in.
DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER
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