We Are The Dead


Last night, I said:

Saying you’ve lost hope and won’t come out in support for such causes is equal to saying they have won.

(Yes, I just quoted myself!) And then, I ‘read’ this:

O’Brien went on:

“[We] cannot be wiped out because it is not an organization in the ordinary sense. Nothing holds it together except an idea which is indestructible. You will never have anything to sustain you, except the idea. You will get no comradeship and no encouragement. When finally you are caught, you will get no help…You will have to get used to living without results and without hope. You will work for a while, you will be caught, you will confess, and then you will die. Those are the only results that you will ever see. There is no possibility that any perceptible change will happen within our own lifetime. We are the dead. Our only true life is in the future. We shall take part in it as handfuls of dust and splinters of bone. But how far away that future may be, there is no knowing. It might be a thousand years. At present nothing is possible except to extend the area of sanity little by little. We cannot act collectively. We can only spread our knowledge outwards from individual to individual, generation after generation…In the face of [all this] there is no other way.”

George Orwell, 1984

And suddenly, so many things make sense. We need to get used to living without hope and without seeing any result, whatever the struggle we are involved in for this country. We need to understand that we are the dead. We need to remember that there is no other way. We need to make sure that we do this for the future, whenever that finally comes.

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Scatterbrain


“Our life is what our thoughts make it.”

~Marcus Aurelius

So that makes it crappy, confusing and random?

Ugh.

Sometimes, I wish I could draw. Then, my life would have been artsy. Instead of sitting in front of a blank monitor screen or scrolling mindlessly through “funnies”, I could take up the pencil and doodle out my thoughts.

Words are my only crutch to make sense of the world, though. But the letters seem to have taken root in my brain, deep, refusing to bear fruit. So all I have are vines and tangles; crap that I’m unable to cut through.

Also, not everyone has the balls to call themselves an artist unless they have got the goods to back it up. But every other person seems to be a writer now.

I need to stop being such a scatterbrain…