Jul 7, 1984
As the clock strikes thirteen, a token of absurdity punctuates every moment of our lives. Once, time had flowed steadily, moments of now twisted to fit into the party’s design. How is one supposed to be able to record their life when the very thought of existing is misled?!
The empty streets, a labyrinth of gray that stretches infinitely, are lined with posters of Big Brother’s watchful gaze. Every step that is taken echoes a cautionary whisper, “You are being watched.” A telescreen, a universal eye, devours my every move, every word, every glance. How am I to express myself, and document my very thoughts, when my very words themselves become evidence of thoughtcrime?
Julia’s laughter, the beautiful melody that defies the Party’s symphony of oppression, echoes in the back of my mind. In her eyes, I get a glimpse of a flame that refuses to be extinguished. The coral paper, rough beneath my fingers, is a testament to my rebellion. The very diary is an inked confession, the only tangible proof of my existence, the inner world of thoughts that the Party is unable to control. The act of writing is an act of defiance, a refusal to surrender my thoughts.
The ink flows under my pen, hesitant yet determined, and I record my transgression against the Party. I put in writing the absurdities, the manipulations, and the careless wars that have served as a backdrop to our lives. The act of writing is an affirmation that exists beyond the Party’s grasp.
But even as I write, I know the peril, the risk that may succeed with my rebellion. Police hover above like shadows, ready to crush my defiance. Writing can be a gesture of survival in a world where betrayal is the cause of peril.
Yet, the pen dances on, etching every thought and word that comes to mind. Words pour on the page, revealing my rebellion. In this diary, in these words, I get to keep my inner self. They can take my body, and overthrow my mind, but in these words, I am preserved.
As the clock chimes fourteen, I close the diary, the cover acting as a shield to my uprising. The room plunges into darkness once again, and I am left in a world where every thought of individuality is to be crushed. Yet, with certainty even in a world where defiance is suppressed, the spirit of resistance can be endured, even if it must be done in the shadows.
Down with Big Brother
Winston Smith