Work Text:
We are the dead.
When I say it out loud, it becomes unbearable.
We've never lived.
We can only hope for the future.
But the present controls the future.
And the past
We're nothing but drones
Non-human, non-loving, non-living, non-thinking
We don't question, we just believe
My thoughts are so confusing, so muddy
So dangerous
The thought-police
"Thought-crime does not entail death, thought-crime is death"
If I were to suddenly say something out loud
I would be vaporized
But it doesn't matter as long as we stay true to ourselves
We'll be human inside
If we can do that, we've won half the battle
Now, the proles, they're human
If only we could be like them
They don't suppress, they express
Like my mother and that refugee
How I long to be in the Golden Country
To hear the birds sing
And to sing along with them
With spirit, like the proles
To speak freely and be with Julia
Oh, how I love her
Her corrupted rebellious spirit
Her practical cunning
She's not bogged down by thoughts
She just acts
With her, we live a little
With her, we aren't mindless drones, we have hope
She sees so clearly
Yet, only from the waist down
Sex is no longer unorthodox, like the pink chunks they claim are meat
Sex is now a political act, redemption, freedom
But that's all she sees
Not the lies, the myths, for those do not concern her
Her resourcefulness brings her now. I hear her footsteps on the stairs.