(no subject)
Rereading the last chapter in 1984 is terrifying. I don't cry about the politics, I bawl because I'm so caught up in whether or not Winston and Julia are still in love. Feverishly I flip the pages looking for an answer, but it seems to say nothing except for the obvious you will die no matter what you do and I can't help but hate myself for being a silly, flimsy high school girl. This is a recurring theme for me.