For the past decade now, it seems my life has come to a stand-still; day after day I perform the same routine while fearing my turn for mortality to strike. However, as of late, as the monotony molds my recent acts of madness, I am more looking forward to my eventual death rather than fearing it.
To define an "act of madness" - ordering a tall as opposed to a venti; lacing my right shoe first instead of my left; displaying blatant disregard for the code of conduct when meeting a new fellow co-worker (that is, casually greeting using a wave of the hand, as opposed to company policy's right-hand double shake, two-second smile, and exchange of one hello each, followed by the specified state's standardized name introduction).
Clearly, defining my extreme acts of defiance against government peace policies as "madness" is quite an understatement. The aforementioned actions would easily have me banished to Anarchisland, which is tantamount to death for our current society's vulnerable drones.
Why, then, do I continue to do these things, despite the lethal repercussions? Why, then, as these thoughts spread through the cells of my mind, do I clip my nails shorter than the recommended half-inch?
It is because I have transcended the sanity of the society in which I reside in. While most around me would gawk at the felonies I now regularly commit, I have adapted, and with this adaptation has come enlightenment. The realization that the policies enacted by government for civilian "protection" have murdered (and brutally, at that) the ability to enjoy an exciting, varied, potentially unequal, unique life.
This reality of life was thrown away as more and more people began to despise the blemishes their lives offered, and they turned to the government for their ultimate downfall: complete equality and pseudo-peace (masked by the current carnage taking place on Anarchisland).
How did I come to these conclusions, though? How are words such as "unique" or "varied" even existent to my vocabulary, seeing as how they were banned for generating public dissent in the year 2200?
This is where I confess my true location: the infamous Anarchisland itself.
Now I feel it is necessary to retract my comment regarding the fatal nature of my current residence, and to replace it with a more exact statement; Anarchisland is deadly to most individuals, and would have been just as deadly to myself, had I not met Alex. Before I explain how he relates to my miraculous survival, it is mandatory I describe how I arrived here in the first place.
I recall my arrival to this hell-hole with frightening detail. To spare you the discomfort which will plague me until the day my mortality strikes, I will summarize.
At 3:30 in the morning, I was rudely awakened to peace patrollers bashing on my door. Their voices were loud, and hissed emotions which my sheltered mind had been unfamiliar with. Feeling my body, normally void of adrenaline, suddenly pulsing with energy and a new emotion — which I later discovered is called "fear" — I curled my blankets over my head and attempted to ignore the consequences of my actions.
Reality caught up with me, in the form of angry hands clutching at my thrashing arms and legs, dragging me towards the unknown. As I was being dragged, a soft white cloth was placed upon my lips, muffling my disturbing noises, and eventually, my consciousness.
When I awoke, I was in a dark, damp, and rancid-smelling area. As I unsteadily stood up and took a step into the utter blackness, the wet ground beneath me lurched, hurling me backwards and into a wooden wall. This was the moment I realized that I was on the boat, meant for deporting ex-civilians to Anarchisland. As I pondered the truth of my situation, and the insidious nature of my surroundings, I fell onto my knees and, for the first time, experienced hopelessness.
Just as I'd begun to doubt I would even arrive before perishing of dehydration, the subtle sways of the ocean halted, and the floor jolted to a stop. By this time, my exhaustion rendered me incapable of panicking as sounds of footsteps approaching from an above flight of stairs grew closer. Without warning, a door flew open fast, slamming my head back into unconsciousness.
In retrospect, I really should have been more observant of my surroundings. But alas, I was still fresh from the womb of the government.
Returning to my story, as I awoke, yet again in a new environment, I found slight comfort in the soft, dry sand supporting my body. But as I sat up and observed, the horror and grotesque sights I beheld bombarded my mind with shock and disbelief. To put it simply, corpses, some complete, and others... not, were strewn about the crimson-stained stretch of sand. Beyond this lay several large, wooden ships, washed upon the shore, now up in flames. I could hear screams of agony rising up from the decrepit town of stone towers, several miles beyond the beach. Separating the beach from this town was a tangled mess of exotic trees, bushes, and by the foreign screeches that echoed in my ears, animals.
My pulse slowed as my plight seemed so dreadful, and everything became surreal. I suddenly felt acutely aware of my thirst, and dared to glance around, my eyes glazing over the bloodied bodies, looking for sources of water. But I already knew my only answer, as I surveyed the disappointing grounds: the jungle.
I sat for a few minutes, staring at the mysterious, potentially harmful thicket.
Just as I'd resolved that my dehydration was currently the first threat to my safety, and stood up, a man's voice rung only feet from my ears.
"The jungle is not safe. Trust me."
That man was Alex.
To define an "act of madness" - ordering a tall as opposed to a venti; lacing my right shoe first instead of my left; displaying blatant disregard for the code of conduct when meeting a new fellow co-worker (that is, casually greeting using a wave of the hand, as opposed to company policy's right-hand double shake, two-second smile, and exchange of one hello each, followed by the specified state's standardized name introduction).
Clearly, defining my extreme acts of defiance against government peace policies as "madness" is quite an understatement. The aforementioned actions would easily have me banished to Anarchisland, which is tantamount to death for our current society's vulnerable drones.
Why, then, do I continue to do these things, despite the lethal repercussions? Why, then, as these thoughts spread through the cells of my mind, do I clip my nails shorter than the recommended half-inch?
It is because I have transcended the sanity of the society in which I reside in. While most around me would gawk at the felonies I now regularly commit, I have adapted, and with this adaptation has come enlightenment. The realization that the policies enacted by government for civilian "protection" have murdered (and brutally, at that) the ability to enjoy an exciting, varied, potentially unequal, unique life.
This reality of life was thrown away as more and more people began to despise the blemishes their lives offered, and they turned to the government for their ultimate downfall: complete equality and pseudo-peace (masked by the current carnage taking place on Anarchisland).
How did I come to these conclusions, though? How are words such as "unique" or "varied" even existent to my vocabulary, seeing as how they were banned for generating public dissent in the year 2200?
This is where I confess my true location: the infamous Anarchisland itself.
Now I feel it is necessary to retract my comment regarding the fatal nature of my current residence, and to replace it with a more exact statement; Anarchisland is deadly to most individuals, and would have been just as deadly to myself, had I not met Alex. Before I explain how he relates to my miraculous survival, it is mandatory I describe how I arrived here in the first place.
I recall my arrival to this hell-hole with frightening detail. To spare you the discomfort which will plague me until the day my mortality strikes, I will summarize.
At 3:30 in the morning, I was rudely awakened to peace patrollers bashing on my door. Their voices were loud, and hissed emotions which my sheltered mind had been unfamiliar with. Feeling my body, normally void of adrenaline, suddenly pulsing with energy and a new emotion — which I later discovered is called "fear" — I curled my blankets over my head and attempted to ignore the consequences of my actions.
Reality caught up with me, in the form of angry hands clutching at my thrashing arms and legs, dragging me towards the unknown. As I was being dragged, a soft white cloth was placed upon my lips, muffling my disturbing noises, and eventually, my consciousness.
When I awoke, I was in a dark, damp, and rancid-smelling area. As I unsteadily stood up and took a step into the utter blackness, the wet ground beneath me lurched, hurling me backwards and into a wooden wall. This was the moment I realized that I was on the boat, meant for deporting ex-civilians to Anarchisland. As I pondered the truth of my situation, and the insidious nature of my surroundings, I fell onto my knees and, for the first time, experienced hopelessness.
Just as I'd begun to doubt I would even arrive before perishing of dehydration, the subtle sways of the ocean halted, and the floor jolted to a stop. By this time, my exhaustion rendered me incapable of panicking as sounds of footsteps approaching from an above flight of stairs grew closer. Without warning, a door flew open fast, slamming my head back into unconsciousness.
In retrospect, I really should have been more observant of my surroundings. But alas, I was still fresh from the womb of the government.
Returning to my story, as I awoke, yet again in a new environment, I found slight comfort in the soft, dry sand supporting my body. But as I sat up and observed, the horror and grotesque sights I beheld bombarded my mind with shock and disbelief. To put it simply, corpses, some complete, and others... not, were strewn about the crimson-stained stretch of sand. Beyond this lay several large, wooden ships, washed upon the shore, now up in flames. I could hear screams of agony rising up from the decrepit town of stone towers, several miles beyond the beach. Separating the beach from this town was a tangled mess of exotic trees, bushes, and by the foreign screeches that echoed in my ears, animals.
My pulse slowed as my plight seemed so dreadful, and everything became surreal. I suddenly felt acutely aware of my thirst, and dared to glance around, my eyes glazing over the bloodied bodies, looking for sources of water. But I already knew my only answer, as I surveyed the disappointing grounds: the jungle.
I sat for a few minutes, staring at the mysterious, potentially harmful thicket.
Just as I'd resolved that my dehydration was currently the first threat to my safety, and stood up, a man's voice rung only feet from my ears.
"The jungle is not safe. Trust me."
That man was Alex.
