Diary of the Truth: First Thoughts (Part One)

Nothing is right. Nothing is what it seems.... Sometimes I feel I am about to explode with anger. But I know I cannot. I must not. Otherwise I will be killed, annihilated-vaporized.... The Party's ideologies make no sense. They are contradicting and confusing. Doublethink it is called. I know that life was different, it must have been. I can feel it deep down in my bones. But there is no hard evidence of this. Well, except for one item that I found many years ago. But that is gone now.

I personally know of no one, except for maybe one person who is with me, who hates the Party, who hates its slogans, its parades, community events, and of course Big Brother. I do not have any real proof of him being on my side, besides a few sidelong glances, and one or two moments when he seemed to agree with me, and assure me that he was with me. O'Brien is his name. He has a peculiarly disarming way of repositioning his glasses on his nose. This comforting gesture seems to indicate his alliance with the rebels, with the Brotherhood. But for all I know he is just as Party-loyal and orthodox as my imbecile neighbor Parsons, or that dark haired girl from the Ministry of Truth, who's Anti-Sex League Belt and outlandish displays of anger during the Two Minutes Hate just ooze with mindlessness loyalty to Big Brother. Hopefully though, I am wrong. I yearn with such strength that my assumptions are correct. I just wish that I could have some real evidence that someone is on my side in the seemingly hopeless struggle to defeat this crushing totalitarian regime which controls every second of my life.

Oh, how scary children are. After aiding the withered Mrs. Parsons with her clogged drain, I was bombarded by her maniacal offspring. They seemed positively sub-human as they chanted harsh words like traitor, thoughtcriminal, and Eurasian spy, and danced around me in a circle. I could see the glint in their eyes and knew that despite their young age, they were a serious threat. The Party has encouraged children of Party members to spy on and turn in their own parents to the Thoughtpolice. Organizations like the Junior Spies and the Youth League promote this ridiculous behavior in them from the time they can speak. When they outgrow these organizations, they join others, such as the one that promotes celibacy, or they start to frequent loathsome places like the community center. All the time the Party's propaganda is forced on their impressionable minds. Even the intelligent ones seem to absorb such nonsense easily. But they use more complicated methods, like doublethink, to justify the multitude of contradicting lies the Party presents to them on a daily basis. The less intelligent ones are completely dumbfounded by the amount of information they are shown, and they end up believing it after awhile, because the authorities say it is correct, and no one tells them otherwise. It seems absolutely ridiculous how the Party maintains such a tight grip over its people.

The only way to live in Oceania and not be constantly monitored by the Party is to be a prole. At 85 percent of the population, they could easily destroy Oceania's totalitarian society whenever they want to. But they are blinded by their individual hardships created by the extreme state of penury that they live in. The Party trusts that the squalor that they exist in will prevent them from becoming truly educated, and therefore unable to grasp grander ideas, like freedom and equality. I wish I could have the freedom of a prole. Even if it should mean I live in severe poverty in a cramped old building constantly in danger of being struck with a rocket bomb. But just think, no telescreens, no community center, and best of all, the freedom to express myself.

In an effort to escape an entire evening of having the Party's ideals drilled into my head at the wretched community center, I decided to wander through the prole section of London the other day. After a bold decision to question an elderly man about life before the Revolution, and after I recieved absolutely no useful information, I found myself walking past the little antiques shop where I had bought this diary. I love antiques. They gleam with the light of a past age, when life seemed more glorious and free and unique. In the shop I bought a small glass paperweight with coral inside of it. After conversing with the shopkeeper, I left and saw the dark haired girl from the Ministry down the alley from me. Then I realized how crazy it had been to wander into the prole section in the first place! I was setting myself up for disaster. I watched her shapely body walk down the street towards me, her beautiful dark hair resting on her shoulders. I thought she must have been a member of the Thoughtpolice. I thought I was done for. But when she passed me without even a glance, I started to run home. Then I thought I should kill her, but I decided against it. I knew I would be caught soon, I knew I was doomed to be tortured and then killed for being the only one who believes the truth. All I could do was wait and hope.