nos societas

Dear Diary,

The day before yesterday Robin, one of our roleplaying group (which I have now left) dropped by with some money for food for me, he could see that I was hard up and out of work. Indeed, if it had not been for kind hearted souls such as he or Robert, I would not have eaten this week. As I strolled into town I saw Mr. Carpenter. He has not been in Church for the past month or so, he is unwell. We sat and talked. Just then, a man whom comes into Won's Westwon walked past. He is a local gangster and his face was splattered with blood. Evidently whomever had hit him was right handed judging by the shape of the sanguine streaks running down his visage. Moments later a heroin addict was on his phone looking about suspiciously, on his cellphone, trying to hide himself whilst simultaneously looking out for someone, likely the gangster in question.

This is home, sweet home. Where I live.

This morning I must go and prostitute my art, for the usual fee (£20 for three hours) and then this evening I will work in Won's Westwon for less than minimum wage. This is my existence, but it is not an existence, it is a subsistence. With the tax man pounding at the door, the threat of eviction hanging over me, the constant hunger, the fact that if I fail I will be unable to re-sit my degree, the shame of meeting my family having failed where my brothers had succeeded, the abolition of overtime, the end to perks of the trade, the deconstruction of the Health Service, the moribund of support for hard working families all culminate in my feeling utterly alone. Yet I am not alone, I am, as we all are, under the ever watchful eye, of Big Brother. Every move I make, anything I say is recorded (as is anything any of us say). It is not so much comforting as intrusive.

If I decide to leave (id est should I fail A397) I will likely be stopped from doing so, despite the fact I am a good man, an honest man, a man whom wishes only to find honest labour, a fair standard of living and acquire an education which I am denied in these once fair shores.

Life is solitude. Only in my dreams have I any freedom whatsoever. It is not life, it is living death.