Dear Diary,
Today is a cold muggy day in
April. “To the future or to the past”, when people live in peace, when
there is love, freedom and sacrifices-to a world when thought is legal and no
vaporization. The breathing and existing are already dead, for I am dead. Big
Brother is thought police, and they bring fear, which makes everyone believe
in Big Brother. No one knows if he is real, they have never seen him, but
people have to know he is there and go by it. I’m scared for what is going
to happen next, more war and fighting, or freedom and nobility. The world live
in poverty with rats, dirt, no shoes and, barely enough food to make by with.
The place I live in, a hole in
the wall, filthy and no color on any of the walls. The telescreen always
watching every move you make no privacy. Every morning a lady blares at us to
do our stretches at the crack of dawn. Sometimes I feel like I can’t make it
anymore, or go on with life. The war, the hatred makes me despise Big Brother.
We should be able to live our own lives with our own thoughts, and our own
opinions, but those are just hopes and dreams for the future. Soon I will be
vaporized, it will be like I never existed, and any evidence that I lived
disappeared. I can tell who will and won’t be vaporized. Anyone and everyone
who is to smart, or has too much logic will eventually disappear. Someday all
the people that live in Oceania will be vanished. I hope for that day to never
come, but it will have to.
The Two Minutes of Hate
stranger than before. Everyone with so much hate in his or her face. People
throwing things at the telescreen, with horror in their eyes. A woman on her
knees, as she prays to worship Big Brother. Crazy I thought how could you
worship to someone with so much hate, wanting to kill everyone in disbelief.
Finally the Hate ends, everyone back to his or her work. A waste of time, is
what I think of the Two Minutes of Hate.
Now it is lunch, my break to
talk to Syme who is the closest person that I’ll call a friend. We get an
old metal tray to put our slop on. On to each tray were dumped pinkish-gray
stew, a piece of bread, a block of cheese, a glass of milkless Victory coffee,
and one saccharine tablet. Syme told me how they’re making another edition
of a dictionary, which soon all we will talk. I gulped down the sour tasting
stew, as it slowly goes down my throat. The bread dry and hard, days old. I
choked lunch down knowing I wouldn’t have dinner. The lunch bell rang; we
all scurried back to our work. Although work is tedious, I liked being busy
and distracted from the world’s miseries.
