Dystopia is all around us. https://twitter.com/CurrentDystopia
I write this now, though I know not for whose eyes I intend it. I fear that if I contain the visuals inside my head they will drive me mad, yet if I speak of them it will be assumed that I already am. So I shall write in the dead of night and hide this book where none can find it, at least until I can prove to them that I am not insane. The voices spoke to me again today. The gaps of silence grow smaller each time. They say they have always been there, but with each truth they speak I surrender a piece of my past, lost forever in the void in my brain beyond memory. So I do not remember. The voices themselves have grown familiar now, and they no longer scare me. But the things the voices speak of fill me with dread and fear. They claim to speak of the future, though how they know these things I cannot say. “Everything is fake,” they whisper to me late at night. They speak of pills. Pills of many shapes and sizes beyond what we ever imagined. Pills for ailments both real and imagined. But the pills cost more money than most people can afford. They voices have come to me so often, that their present feels like mine now. I almost feel as if the strange place they come from is my own. “There is enough food for everyone,” the man says, his voice a mixture of amusement and sadness. “But millions of people die of hunger each year.” The women adds, coldly. I asked them why, and they spoke of problems with transport and distribution, poverty, and a society that seeks perfection. The food never makes it to the mouths that need it the most. The disgusting waste of resources is hidden from public eyes, and so no one sees the problem. “The politicians,” the female says softly, “The ones in charge!” the male barks. “They are all purchased, their words are not their own. Men and women vote as equals, but neither vote matters without money attached.” The female says quietly. She says there are too many layers, masking the corruption, and hiding those who are truly in charge above the clouds that hug the mountain top. They speak of strange devices, and strange words that had no meaning to me. “Everyone communicates, every day, all day, without stop.” The male voice says with humor thick on his voice. The female voice sighs. “They communicate but they do not speak,” she says sadly. “The communication is an illusion. Another shallow version of something that was once a beautiful essential part of life.” They speak of a beautiful net of information that flows all around the world. They say it holds the knowledge of a billion books, but they say that it is not often used for learning. They whisper strange stories to me as I sleep. They show me strange images of cats with misspelled sentences scribbled across them which I don’t understand. They tell me that one day it will all make sense. “One day it will ‘click’,” the male voice said with a laugh. I do not understand what he means. I must go soon. Daylight approaches quickly and I must hide my notes away. I will attempt to write more soon, for the voices speak of many more things. They promise me that I can go to this place they speak of soon, so I patiently wait. I hope to one day to know what it feels like to take “Prosac”. To see any information I could want or dream of pulled from the sky at my command. And most importantly, I yearn to understand what the mystical “lolz cat” is, and to find out why it brings the male voice so much joy.