Word Bank

Flatlands

     There's something the government isn't telling us. There has to be. The world isn't flat; I can feel it -the curves in the ground, the hills and mountains that cover the lands, there can't be an end to the earth...there just can't!

However, if I speak my thoughts, I can be killed for treason -high treason. Beheaded; that's what I'll be. I'm already missing an arm from the War of Tyroin and I'd like to keep my head. Not saying these feelings aloud is wrong. I need to express this, but I don't want to die. That's why I write my opinions down in a journal, then fold it up and hide it in the hollowed out prosthetic arm that covers my wound. I keep my thoughts with me, even though there's a chance they can be found. It feels safer than leaving them at my house, where the police can come in and take away the threads that embed a certain kind of rebellion in the system.

Most of my notes are nonsense to any normal human being -they seem to be ramblings that show I have no problem with the government. They mean something to me though. It fuels my hatred, sometimes I forget the horrendous things society does- I find myself looking at the papers hidden away for reassurance.

The world isn't flat.

I'm more than just a follower.

Music can be more then chants that try to join the countries together and help give support to troops fighting for.... peace?

If peace is what you can call it. We'll never win, the others will never win, but no one will lose. We might gain no ground, but neither does the enemy -the enemy everyone hates but wants to be united with. Nothing makes sense. Why does the government do this to the citizens? They confuse us to the point where everything seems so clear...then they tell us something different. The government tells us to believe in what they say and forget the past. Only I can't forget the past. I have scars that remind me of my time as boy, fighting in the war that I was so sure would help my county. I thought I meant something.

I didn't.

I didn't mean anything just as my fellow soldiers meant nothing. And just as the soldiers fighting now mean nothing. We were used to simply push the future further ahead.

I remember everything; All the lies. All the changes. And sometimes I see things that show me I'm in the right.

I am right.

I know everything, yet it seems the more I know, the less of a chance people will believe me.

      I have to write down the truth...

Date: 7-23-2051
Entry #189

The people I see walking on the streets don't know their government is lying to them. I want to whisper the truth in someone's ear; tell them that they've been lied to since the day they were born... but I can't. I'll be killed. The stranger might even be killed. The notes I stuff in my arm are a weight I bare, and it'll be that way till I die. Perhaps I need an heir I can pass the truth onto- but I'm not sure I could trouble a kin of mine to withhold such dangerous information. I couldn't even bring a child into this world... They might have pride in the country they'll live in. I shan't let another family member of mine believe the ugly mind twisting lies the governors and policemen force upon our minds. Is death better than living in a world where you have to act as though you know nothing?
It's quite possible.

My handwriting is sloppy, I remember my mother once telling me that with scribe as incoherent as mine I should become a doctor. I did aspire to be one for a while, but then I quickly dismissed the idea as I joined the Army.

Life has been a steady decline downhill since then; My mother died. My father was killed for stealing, I never had anyone to confess my love to -I was just a pawn... I still am.

My life was over the day I was born; my fate written through time itself with the quills my superiors hold.

I wish it could've been different. I wish I could've been free of the struggles and misfortune this life has dictated for me. I wish that I won't be forced to die depressed, alone, and scarred. But everybody dies. Only I have no clue as to whether my death will come naturally or from the hands of a headman that drops the blade on the Guillotine.

Maybe that's another thing to write about, but maybe I'll save it for another day. As of now, I am tired.