GEORGE ORWELL’S 1984 and My Obsession

The soft wind which preceded the evening rain must have affected me. I stood up like a programmed robot and ran faster than an Usain Bolt would have done. The rush would earn me the tag “desperado”.

My destination was the top of my wardrobe. I am here. On the chair that would aid my height. I could fall and lose some teeth. Yet, I pressed. 
I need not search too long. It was always top on my list and now my catalogue of texts.

The smell of the old brown newsprint paper excites me. A tiny voice quarried, “are you obsessed with this piece?” Of course, I wouldn’t answer, I would disregard the soul searching question.

I wanted to flip through. I have to recall the narrations . I was beginning to miss a line or two as I attempted a flashback. Apparently, there were memorable characters that wouldn’t jump out of my head in a hurry.

Julia won’t. Winston won’t too. The thought police — Mr Carrington and the super under-cover agent and torture expert — O’Brien. 
And Room 101 remains the dreadful room I won’t take a nap.