The Words on the Walls

II

Tuesday, Autumn 40th, 2240

I watched a video the other day. Mommy had recorded it when I was three. I realized then that I have never documented my childhood years. For the obvious reason that I could not write and I was afraid of nothing other than vaccuums, the refridgerator, and people's laughter.

I was not afraid of the things that I am afraid of now. I did not see any reason to document my thoughts, my emotions, my words, my actions. I didn't even think about documenting things, as I now do. I was stupid.

Maybe I am being a bit harsh on my younger self. I did not have the brain capacity to know what to fear. I was far too busy listening and following orders from those who wanted me to remain stupid.

Those who had fears of their own, and anger too. Anger and fear warped their minds and brains into thinking of nothing other than making sure that no one found out anything important. Some people could not be trusted to know the important things, they thought. These people were controlled by their fears and their anger. Then these people put fear and anger into other people's minds too.

The world was controlled by fear and anger, and still is.

Curse younger me. Stupid.

I closed the journal that I've been told is mine. I can relate to younger me, cursing the even younger me. Because what could have compelled me to not finish the entry. Why didn't I talk about the video. I need to know what I was like when I was younger. What I would have done to respond to 'those who wanted me to remain stupid'.

I flipped back to earlier in the journal. I looked for a particular one. One of the very first pages in the book. One that was written hurredly. I had read it many times and almost knew it from memory.

Tuesday, Winter 60th, 2239

I would like to document everything. Feelings, thoughts, words, memories, everything. Because what would happen if I lost my memory? If all those things were gone from my mind? If I would wake up one day and realize that I had no idea where I was?

Would I be a brand new person? Would the things that matter to me continue to matter? Maybe I would become a person the former me would hate with all the blood in her body. I wouldn't want that. But then again, if it did happen, then I guess what I want currently wouldn't matter. But who knows? I want to document everything. Just in case.

I am 15 years old. My birthday is Summer 54th.

I have dirty blond hair. I love it at just past shoulder length. I don't want to dye it unless I dye it white or black or grey.

Mommy is calling me to dinner. I should stop writing. She has been calling for quite some time now. I haven't heard her until now.

The entry ended there. The rest of the journal was the documentation. There was no other formal list.

I sighed and stared at the walls around me. The white walls with tiny dark spots sprinkling them. I stared at the windowless metal door painted to look like wood behind me. And at my worn journal bound with blue leather. And at the boring plastic table I was sitting at. And then at the emptiness filling the rest of the room.