||[Feb. 18th, 2006|09:48 pm]
In a time long past, a boy who is now a man watches as children his age play with a stuffed ball in an artifical playground - playing in fields of cut grass, not the real kind but synthetic, close to the ideal unless you get close enough to examine the colour and texture. Whatever the advances of technology, whatever the degradation of human beings, the aesthetics of athletic sports remained the same in whatever form - the ball is kicked by one person or another, who in turn either passes it back or kicks it to a third party, and the game goes on. In a world where human beings begin to realize the wrong choices made by their ancestors, they play games in the midst, blissful and innocent in a world of dreams already beginning to fade and tarnish, fall into the dust.
The boy who would later be known as many names, not in the least being Hilber Marisen, watched upon the games with sadness, longing. The three boys that were playing together were younger than him, carefree. Not yet grown up, and somewhere in the back of his mind the boy comprehends that he must grow up soon. His father is already beginning his lessons - how to walk in crowds without attracting attention, how to hide from security cameras, where to identify the spots that machines put devices to record conversations in restaraunts, analyze them detail by detail, run through the information in mere seconds. He’s learning that the machines he sees patrolling the streets and speaking to him in the school hallways watch everything he does, from hastily studying his electronic study sheet in his bedroom to brushing his teeth in the washing quarters.
He’s learning that to be truly free, you have to be invisible. You can’t let anyone get too close, because eventually you’ll start letting on too much information, too much knowledge about yourself. And sooner or later, all that knowledge gets filtered into machine knowledge, and you’re under their thumb again.
He’s learning that being free is a good thing. That once, long ago, machines didn’t exist - that there was a time that human beings controlled themselves, a concept that the boy finds to be unimaginable. He’s learning that he’s part of the true resistance, the one without guns - he’s learning of the knowledge fo the Underground, and the secrets he holds now has already changed him, sobered and taken something of the child in him already.
He knows that soon, very soon, he won’t be allowed to be seen in public anymore. He won’t be able to go to the playground and play with his friends anymore. He won’t even be allowed to have friends, no one outside of the Underground. Soon, he would be gone from the known world - erased and forgotten, dead to the world he briefly lived in. He would be invisible, just like his parents. He would be free.
With mournful eyes, the boy watches his friends playing for what might be the last time. His hand rises upward to greet them, as if saying a silent farewell to them.
In a brief lull in the moment, the children spot him and call to him, inviting him over to play with him. Hesitating briefly, the boy, not yet invisible, stares at them a moment longer before running to join them, his shoes kicking up the dirt as he goes.
(Will continue onward when I'm done this bloody essay)