comrade

I have been going through my writing archives for some reason and I found this. It is my own addition to Orwell's 1984 - I don't know the point of this (especially posting it now), but it's an interesting read. ----------------------
Location: Ministry of Love.
Time, Year, Date: I doubt whether time is real, I doubt whether we live in a constructed reality. Winston Smith. Winston Smith. I look at the telescreen, it's impeccable, unnerving gaze and keep repeating my name on loop. I fear I might lose it somehow, I fear I might convince myself that Winston Smith is a false memory. They say there is a thin line between fact and fiction and dearest, my eyes have started to deceive me with every passing second. There is an established timeline to every story, there must be a sequence to the time between my death and my birth. O'Brien tells me that what you build is the version of truth you must believe in, what happened is not a matter of interest. Of course, everything you build must be verified by the Party, '’Brien tells me that it is like constructing a house. You need legal intervention to erect a home he says and isn't it similar for memories? Memories are home Julia, now aren’t they? I keep coming up with theories about my life, I think a lot about them. I try to concentrate but I can't think of whole pieces Julia, I live in fragments of nostalgia. I think about my mother, I think about my sister, I think about you, my dear. It is almost amusing how I don’t recall my time at work, all the time I spent editing and shredding documented revolt. I've spent days on the floor trying to remember and connect every dot with strings and strings with dots and so many strings until I go mad and spend hours untangling every link. I spend hours with O'Brien, he is a really charming man. He tells me that he is a busy man and I feel amazed by the amount of time he spends talking to me. He tells me that I am his fellow comrade and comrade to comrade relationship is important for the party, almost as serious as the war. He keeps scribbling something in his books, I assume it must be reminders to his later appointments. I stay still on my bed and he keeps talking till I become drowsy and wake up days(?),hours(?), minutes(?) later. I always wake up with extreme pain in my limbs and he tells me that it is normal pain for the disease I am suffering from and he tells me that he is there for me while shoving down a glass of an orange-ish drink. I tell him everything I remember about my life, I tell him about you but then I cry till my heart burns and O'Brien tells me I must get rid of the pain that comes along with thought, I mustn’t think for myself, I should leave all the thinking part to the Party. That is the Party’s policy he says, the Party aims in achieving the highest level of intellectual freedom. To relieve a person from all the stressful thinking, now isn’t that what you call freedom Julia? I like the Big Brother - Julia, he has been generous enough to take away the burden of reasoning. O'Brien told me once that they will squeeze me out of me and fill me with them, the disease-free version of Winston Smith. Why are they always right Julia? Their righteousness seems to frustrate me.