Daily blog: It’s January 19th, and you know dystopia is rising when a man whose son was caught dealing under the table with China is about to sit in the President’s office. The same China that released Covid1984 onto the world.
When a caravan of illegal immigrants heads your way because a criminal president wants to tear down a wall along your border, giving them access to your land and tax dollars.
When two-thirds, if not all, of the country knows the election was stolen.
When Washington, D.C, looks like something out of an apocalypse novel.
You know dystopia is rising because you feel it in your gut.
“Your worst enemy, he reflected, was your own nervous system. At any moment the tension inside you was liable to translate itself into some visible symptom. He thought of a man whom he had passed in the street a few weeks back: a quite ordinary-looking man, a Party member, aged thirty-five or forty, tallish and thin, carrying a brief case. They were a few meters apart when the left side of the man’s face was suddenly contorted by a sort of spasm. It happened again just as they were passing one another: it was only a twitch, a quiver, rapid as the clicking of a camera shutter, but obviously habitual. He remembered thinking at the time: that poor devil is done for. And what was frightening was that the action was quite possibly unconscious. The most deadly danger of all was talking in your sleep. There was no way of guarding against that, so far as he could see.
He drew in his breath and went on writing:” — George Orwell, 1984
Timothy French 