It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as […]
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Books Vs. Cigarettes

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It was all nonsense, as they both knew. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one’s lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.

George Orwell, 1984

She stood there, right in front of him, and waited for him to finish the phone call he was taking for a while now, she was starting to feel annoyed, and as she started to lose patience, he hung up, smiled politely at her, and asked her if she needed any help.

She took her time looking at him, she always have, intensely deciphering every curve on his face, each wrinkle around his eyes, then gauging exactly how many specks of brightness his clear green eyes made with the flickering of light, how lost they seemed to be, and the hollow soul he carried. She fancied him, that she would not deny, he was boyishly good-looking, not handsome in a beau kind of way, but sheepishly cute, and she felt like she could take care of him, pamper him all day, like he needed the love and attention she could give, like this was her purpose, her call.

“I need a new book.” she said icily, a twitch slightly forming on her lips. Then, before he could wrap his head and suggest something new, something that would interest her, she broke her silence again and demanded the book she wanted to read for the last couple of years but never had the chance to. She asked him to get her Orwell’s 1984.

Stupefied, he ran to get it, as they only had one copy left, he didn’t take her for a heavy reader, he thought she was all girly like, a non political kind of person, as if she went on with her life aimlessly. Even when he got back, he questioned her motives again, he questioned her ability to understand what she was about to read. It would take him a while before he changed his perception of her, before he got to know her, for what she truly was.

It always stung her, deep down, the way he first perceived her, the way he undermined her brains, she was not a baby doll, nor a child, she could argue, think, and change, she was stronger than what he believed, she made sure he got aware of her strength, of her real self. She showed him her bare soul, unveiled the depths of her being which no one had ever seen, discussed with him, she let him in, she would always remember him for that, for he had her at “Orwell”.

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