On Tuesday, it shall be the last day of the year and, according to the New Laws, the first day of winter. The Elders have been whispering for some time now; they say that this winter will not be the same. They say that we are not ready. Not ready? the younger Officials exclaim. We created winter; how could we not be ready? Then they shake their heads and walk away, their eyes full of pity. It's because they're getting old, the Officials explain. They know they are nearing their Day of Judgement. It's quite common for them to go a little crazy.
But I know that this is a lie. How can it be a common occurrence when this is the first time the Elders have spoken of problems in our New Society? How can such predictions be merely brushed under the carpet?
We are not ready.
The idea of being unprepared in the New Society is formidable. How can we not be prepared for something we made?
So I've started writing. It is an action that may not save my world, but, in the past, many a person has seemed to find solace in writing. Of course, I should not know about the past, except for the few, select moments that the Chief has deemed suitable for us to view.
It is because of the past that we have had to build the New Society and, now that we have risen from the ashes, I see no reason to hold onto our polluted past, the Chief had said. Then, just like that, he set fire to all the books our world possessed. He snapped the chips and databases that contained such painstakingly detailed history.
He burned what we were.
And then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed us and we all carried on with our carefully planned lives. I remember, as a young child, staring up into the smoke filled sky and watching little white scraps of paper float delicately on the breeze. Some fell to the ground with orange sparks trailing behind and, instinctively, I had held out a gloved hand to catch one. Just one. I had tucked it into my pocket and scurried away and now, to this day, I still have the paper. It had only two small words on it, written in a delicate spiral of a font,some lines darker than others where more ink was used.
I'm one of the few who can write with their own hand, in whatever font I choose. The New Society dictates that we all type on our own, personal slates, which makes it easier for the Officials to follow our every move. But I've always liked writing. I've always liked the way my hand starts to ache and cramp when I have been scribbling for too long. I love how the shapes of my letters change, sometimes curly and thick and other times slight and slanted. Writing is illegal and is a Violation of the New Laws. Perhaps that is why I continue to write.
So, with the last day of the year looming and the possibility of a different winter, I shall write.
And if you are reading this, I am afraid that I am dead.