Part One: Sections I - VIII

Usually it’s not windy in April, especially in Oceania. But today, today’s different. I don’t know what’s going on at Victory Mansions, but everything is out of place. The hallways smell of boiled cabbage and are filled with posters of Big Brother. “BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU,” they all say. Everyone seems to be intimidated by him, but not me. Down with Big Brother. I could care less about following the rules and I’m not afraid to take chances. Even if writing this diary has to be kept a secret from everyone.

Something’s definitely wrong with the telescreen because it never shuts off. I always feel like I’m being watched and I know the Thought Police has something to do with this. I can’t take it anymore. I want privacy and I want it now.

She’s watching me. The girl with the dark brown hair is watching me. Just like the telescreen. She’s watching me. I can see her out of the corner of my eyes. At first, I didn’t know what she was doing there and why exactly I was paying attention to her. But then I noticed something. Something about her is strangely intriguing, even though she’s a woman and she disgusts me. I still think she’s a spy, but she has yet to confront me about my crimes. I’m definitely not losing my life because of a Junior Anti-Sex League member.

The knock at the door startled me, but luckily, it wasn’t the Thought Police. It was Mrs. Parsons asking if I could help her with her plumbing. But when I got to her house, the plumbing was the least bit of my concern. Instead, my mind was flooded with the sound of the children’s loud whines, begging their mom to let them attend the hanging.

Before I knew it, I was alone. The past was out of my reach and my future was unimaginable. I reached into my pocket and took out a coin, but it didn’t ease my loneliness. All I could see was Big Brother. It was almost as if he were watching me – watching every move I made and every thought that crossed my mind.

It has been more than 20 years since my mom passed away, but somehow, I still feel responsible for her disappearance. I guess she just sacrificed her own life for my sake. But still, I can’t help but dream about her. She and my sister, slowly sinking on a ship.

My job at the Ministry of Truth has become a little repetitive. Every day, I arrive at work, destroy obsolete documents, rewrite Big Brother’s speeches if necessary and then repeat the process. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the days kept getting longer and longer. After a while, I couldn’t even keep track of what year it was, let alone what day it was.

When I had lunch with Syme, one of the Party’s members, I got some insight of Newspeak, Oceania’s official language. Every year, hundreds of words were being destroyed, in hopes of creating a language with only six words. But in reality, there would be only one. Originally, this was Big Brother’s idea. Another reason that I’m against it. I mean, seriously, who needs a new language? Oh well, though, I can’t do anything about it. Whatever Big Brother says, goes. Who knows, maybe next time I write in my diary, I’ll be writing in an entirely different language – one that no one will be able to understand.

I still feel like I’m being watched by that same girl. The same girl with the dark brown hair. I don’t know what her name is, but I’m determined to find out. But until then, I’m definitely keeping my eye on her. I’m not letting her get away with anything, even if I need to go against Big Brother and his “Party.”

I usually don’t talk about my wife Katherine, but there’s only one word that comes to mind when I think of her – sex. The only reason we separated was because we realized that we would never have children. And what was the point of being married if we couldn’t? Besides, my recent encounter with the prole prostitute was probably way better than anything my ex-wife would have given me. Because the Party’s main goal is to remove pleasure from sexual intercourse, I am determined to rebel. I desperately need to have an enjoyable sexual affair, even if it means if I have to do it with an old and ugly prostitute. In fact, I think I’ll go through with it. But still, I feel the need to shout profanities at the top of my lungs so everyone can hear me.

I wonder what the past was like before the Revolution. After many attempts at trying to find out for myself, I have failed. Everyone I asked had no answer at all, or an answer that made absolutely no sense. No one seems to know anything anymore. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s true that the past was better than the present. And maybe in the past, people actually knew what they were doing. Maybe there was no such thing as the “Party,” or “Big Brother.”

But until then, all I can do is hope. Hope that everything will turn out okay. Hope that the girl with the dark hair and Big Brother will stop looking at me. Down with Big Brother and the dark-haired girl.

- Winston Smith