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.

Pretending To Hope

I loved visiting my dad’s office. Eons ago, I would sometimes accompany my father after school so he could finish up and we could go home for lunch together.

Those were the days! Pretend never got better than those two hours a week. Such day-dreams; such air-castles.

I loved sitting in his swiveling chair, behind his big desk, propped up on my legs to appear taller. I would write on the official notepad, make some scribbles. Make up words. Numbers and sums. And pretend I had just signed a very important deal with a very important client.

Who, by the way, loved my business acumen. I had no match! And I, a girl, had successfully conquered the male-dominated domain of business *insert evil laughter*.

Those days are long gone. Have fluttered away on the wings of time. Mere wisps of memory, trying to morph into something solid through words. Sigh.

Currently, I do have a desk. Words, numbers, scribbles. Swivelly chair. And there is hope that it would get better. Whether I have done anything worthwhile , I’m still trying to decide. I hope I am.

Hope. That same old fickle friend of mine. It’s nice to be able to see him once in a while.

Meanwhile, pretend doesn’t get better than this.

Such day-dreams; such air-castles.