Day 3

Where did my mother go? My father? My sister?... Did they really sacrifice their lives to protect mine? I do not feel such deep emotions of sorrow and dread, but only pain, fear, and hatred. Oh my poor knees, how they ache. That constant TV spitting exercise routines. "Reality control" in Newspeak: doublethink. What is that? This reality I live upon, the reality I breathe and eat, the pain that goes shooting down my back, is it too much? Too much for my own fragile self to handle? Such a rotting atmosphere, ready to break apart and crumble onto the people living under it. How my own body can handle such exercises i do not know. Oh what a risk my body takes writing my entitled opinions... my thought-crimes.

Day 2

Mrs. Parsons is old... or well looks the part. Her children playing amongst themselves, shouting "thought-criminal", "spy", "traitor", and "Goldstein"; who is this Goldstein? Were these children on to me? No, their only children. The hanging... the good-old days, with the weekly hanging. Oh how I miss childhood. Poor Mrs. Parsons, living a life of terror with those reckless children- no behavior or manners what-so-ever. This community... smells of such great cabbage. Oh so poor. Newspeak and Ingsoc... why? why were they here? thought-crime... why? I do not understand. "War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength... War is peace, freedom is slavery, ignorance is strength..." Ministry of Truth, where did they get this? Oh Big Brother, what have I done to deserve your deadly gaze... I write to the past and to the future, where things were different, where people were different, where the society was different, where rights are different. All of my thought-crimes, I imagine every waking moment of my life, am I to be dead? Am I already dead? What is this madness?...

Day 1

This television screen... why does it look upon me? It won't turn off... Everything was so much easier as a child, now everything... the truth has become so grim. I don't remember these rotting houses... Bright-lit tableaux, the old days. Who is this Goldstein? That dark haired girl. Who is this dark haired girl? Why does she have to be so pretty, oh how I hate her. No sex? Who are all of these people? Where did they come from... Oh Big Brother, stop staring at me, I'm not guilty of anything, or at least I think I'm not. How I wish to express myself... illegally. The urge to write, but the restraint of the illegal act, risks must be taken, down in History. Would someone catch me? Is someone catching me RIGHT NOW? Thoughtcrimes... They will come after me one day. A risk I must take. I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! How guilty I must feel... Hallucinations?...