To all,
I must admit, I feel rather like Winston Smith from Orwell's 1984. I sit here in front of the image of a blank piece of paper on my computer screen. I am alone in my study, alone, but like Winston, I am hesitant to write on this blank piece of paper, fearful that I am under the watchful eye of the telescreen. It is a form of paranoia, I guess, a paranoia that is synonymous with being in the organization; an organization that worries more about perception than substance. In any event, I look at the blank slate and I wonder, why do I desire to write something...anything. I know that my thoughts may be better left unsaid; they are better left...inside. But, they are choking me. They are cutting off my breath and making me faint as if the air I am breathing is too thin to meet my needs. They are at the back of my throat, tickling my vocal cords, like a stifled cough, a persistent, constant itch that only words written down on a page can pacify. They are the only thing that makes me distinct in an organization where uniformity is misconstrued as unity.
I recall a poignant passage, Orwell's description of Winston's initial reaction when he catches the stare of O'Brien, one of the party bigwigs. It is a moment, a transcendental moment. No words are said, no comment made, simply a stare, and in that stare...realization; the realization that someone may feel the same as you, however fearful, however ashamed, someone else recognizes the flaw, the inconsistency, the manipulation, the abuse. Someone else is choking back the words and wants to cry out like the little boy in the Hans Christian Anderson story of the Emperor.
Over the years, many have spoken to me with their own stifled voices. They have trusted me to be an empathetic soundboard. Many have muttered negative comments, or to the extreme, have stated emphatically that they disagree with what they see, hear, or read. They then capitulate and rebut their comment or speak as if they are simply repeating the objection or position of a third, unknown party, distinct from themselves. It is as if they were playing the part of some schizophrenic lawyer countervailing his own argument. "I object!" "No, I object to your objection!" I feel for them. I know their plight. In their heart, they know that there is something terribly wrong, but ultimately, they are hesitant lest they be outed and summarily dismissed like an insubordinate worker or an unruly child. For them, life has become a struggle between perception and reality, between ego and id. And I, I continue attenuating their sound in silence.
So, then, why do I write? Today, today I write because I choose to write. Nothing more. Nothing less. I am not worried about sides or positions. I am not worried about personal philosophy or doctrine. I simply wish to avail myself of the canvas with words as my brushstrokes, painting a picture of the reality I see. I harbor no ill-will. I wish no converts. I simply share as I watch the throngs of people waiting to board a capsule. It is amazing what comes to mind on a cold, cloudy day by the river.
Greetings,
Separation of Powers