The streets are filled with people, running over each other and pushing each other around like ants. All of them look the exact same; figures draped in gray with a birdlike mask covering the face to protect from airborne diseases carried by the smoke. This look was adapted some thirty years ago, when the smog became so thick that the moon wasn’t visible anymore. In fact the very concept of a night sky became somewhat of a fairytale for children. They tell them stories of little fairylights, fireflies and dots on the canvas – of course, these are the stars. The moon is an eye, or a hole in the canvas, from which a higher being looks upon us.
But back on the ground, things are very much different. People have no hope for a higher being or a God, they keep to themselves and their work. Mainly because there is really nothing else to do. Life is now a vicious cycle of work-home-work-home, nobody has time for hobbies or interests.
Work is whatever the higher-ups tell you to do. If they say to push a button, you push a button. If they say to type, you type. If they say be happy, then you’re happy.
Happiness is something artificial too, much like everything else. Perhaps nobody even remembers what it is like to feel the genuine joy over something. If you don’t understand, I’ll try to visualize as best as I can. Imagine that every day, a figure in white tells you to smile. It says that everything is perfect, there’s nothing bad to report. It reminds you of the curfew and of the happiness your life brings you.
Well, did you imagine it? If you were here, you wouldn’t have to. It is the reality now.
You can see the figure every morning on the streets. It appears on every screen, from every hologram projector, on every billboard – and repeats the same thing, over and over again.
At first people were amused. Then bored. Then irritated. Then desperate for it to stop. And then they gave in, one by one. After all, repeated exposure leads to acceptance.
And that’s what a walk in the streets looks like. Tall buildings looming over you, casting long shadows, blocking out the rays of sunshine that manage to break through the smog. A monotone voice repeating the same mantra.
And after a long day of listening to orders, you walk back to your tiny apartment, barely managing to push through the crowd. If you have a child, you tuck them in and tell them a story of the past, a story of the sky. You tell them wonders, you speak to them of trees and laughs, of tiny little specks on a dark canvas.
When you’re sure that they’re asleep, you take off your disease preventing mask, change into an uncomfortable sleeping garment, you lie down on the couch and drift to unconsciousness.
But what you do not know is that there is a sky above you. You gave up hope long ago, and now you proceed to tell magnificent stories to the younger generation. And with those stories, you’re making them have hope that you lost. Because a child still dreams. They dream of going beyond the clouds, beyond the smoke and fog, and exploring a world that you told them about. It’s important to keep that hope alive. Because up there there is a world where you can truly be happy. A world that greets you with open arms, and reassures you that hope can be diminished, but never truly lost.
