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BIg Brother has eyes for the loners of society.

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posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 06:42 PM
reply to post by snowen20

That is nice and all, but I really don't care. I am going to live forever..and I am going to reach back to Creation before they do and erase them from existence, and they will suffer greatly. I want to love and protect the people and free them of this tyranny.

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 06:54 PM
reply to post by golden144

Well, if I were God perhaps I would enjoy being all sweeping and erasing them from existence. Unfortunately, I don't know what I would do with myself if I couldn't complain openly. But I do want to alert people to the tyrannical nature of our society and the direction it is going.

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 07:19 PM
Check it out...

To enter out into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November, to put your feet upon that buckling concrete walk, to step over grassy seams and make your way, hands in pockets, through the silences, that was what Mr Leonard Mead most dearly loved to do. He would stand upon the corner of an intersection and peer down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk in four directions, deciding which way to go, but it really made no difference; he was alone in this world of 2053 A.D., or as good as alone, and with a final decision made, a path selected, he would stride off, sending patterns of frosty air before him like the smoke of a cigar.
Sometimes he would walk for hours and miles and return only at midnight to his house. And on his way he would see the cottages and homes with their dark windows, and it was not unequal to walking through a graveyard where only the faintest glimmers of firefly light appeared in flickers behind the windows. Sudden gray phantoms seemed to manifest upon inner room walls where a curtain was still undrawn against the night, or there were whisperings and murmurs where a window in a tomb-like building was still open.
Mr Leonard Mead would pause, cock his head, listen, look, and march on, his feet making no noise on the lumpy walk. For long ago he had wisely changed to sneakers when strolling at night, because the dogs in intermittent squads would parallel his journey with barkings if he wore hard heels, and lights might click on and faces appear and an entire street be startled by the passing of a lone figure, himself, in the early November evening.
On this particular evening he began his journey in a westerly direction, toward the hidden sea. There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction, and whistled a cold quiet whistle between his teeth, occasionally picking up a leaf as he passed, examining its skeletal pattern in the infrequent lamplights as he went on, smelling its rusty smell.
'Hello, in there,' he whispered to every house on every side as he moved. 'What's up tonight on Channel 4, Channel 7, Channel 9? Where are the cowboys rushing, and do I see the United States Cavalry over the next hill to the rescue?'
The street was silent and long and empty, with only his shadow moving like the shadow of a hawk in mid-country. If he closed his eyes and stood very still, frozen, he could imagine himself upon the center of a plain, a wintry, windless Arizona desert with no house in a thousand miles, and only dry river beds, the street, for company.
'What is it now?' he asked the houses, noticing his wrist watch. Eight-thirty P.M.? Time for a dozen assorted murders? A quiz? A revue? A comedian falling off the stage?'
Was that a murmur of laughter from within a moon-white house? He hesitated, but went on when nothing more happened. He stumbled over a particularly uneven section of sidewalk. The cement was vanishing under flowers and grass. In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time.
He came to a cloverleaf intersection which stood silent where two main highways crossed the town. During the day it was a thunderous surge of cars, the gas stations open, a great insect rustling and a ceaseless jockeying for position as the scarab-beetles, a faint incense puttering from their exhausts, skimmed homeward to the far directions. But now these highways, too, were like streams in a dry season, all stone and bed and moon radiance.
He turned back on a side street, circling around toward his home. He was within a block of his destination when the lone car turned a corner quite suddenly and flashed a fierce white cone of light upon him. He stood entranced, not unlike a night moth, stunned by the illumination, and then drawn toward it.
A metallic voice called to him:
'Stand still. Stay where you are! Don't move!'
He halted.
'Put up your hands!'
'But-' he said.
'Your hands up! Or we'll shoot!'
The police, of course, but what a rare, incredible thing; in a city of three million, there was only one police car left, wasn't that correct? Ever since a year ago, 2052, the election year, the force had been cut down from three cars to one. Crime was ebbing; there was no need now for the police, save for this one lone car wandering and wandering the empty streets.
'Your name?' said the police car in a metallic whisper. He couldn't see the men in it for the bright light in his eyes.
'Leonard Mead,' he said.
'Speak up!'
'Leonard Mead!'
Business or profession?'
'I guess you'd call me a writer.'
No profession,' said the police car, as if talking to itself. The light held him fixed, like a museum specimen, needle thrust through chest.
'You might say that,' said Mr Mead.
He hadn't written in years. Magazines and books didn't sell anymore. Everything went on in the tomb-like houses at night now, he thought, continuing his fancy. The tombs, ill-lit by television light, where the people sat like the dead, the gray or multi-colored lights touching their faces, but never really touching them.
'No profession,' said the phonograph voice, hissing. 'What are you doing out?'
'Walking,' said Leonard Mead.
'Just walking,' he said simply, but his face felt cold.
'Walking, just walking, walking?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Walking where? For what?'
'Walking for air. Walking to see.'
'Your address!'
'Eleven South Saint James Street.'
'And there is air in your house, you have an air conditioner, Mr Mead?'
'And you have a viewing screen in your house to see with?'
'No?' There was a crackling quiet that in itself was an accusation.
'Are you married, Mr Mead?'
'Not married,' said the police voice behind the fiery beam. The moon was high and dear among the stars and the houses were gray and silent.
'Nobody wanted me,' said Leonard Mead with a smile.
'Don't speak unless you're spoken to!'
Leonard Mead waited in the cold night.
'Just walking; Mr Mead?'
But you haven't explained for what purpose.'
'I explained; for air, and to see, and just to walk.'
'Have you done this often?'
Every night for years.'
The police car sat in the center of the street with its radio throat faintly humming.
'Well, Mr Mead', it said.
''s that all?' he asked politely.
'Yes,' said the voice. 'Here.' There was a sigh, a pop. The back doot of the police car sprang wide. 'Get in.'
'Wait a minute, 1 haven't done anything!'
'Get in.'
'I protest!'
'Mr Mead.'
He walked like a man suddenly drunk. As he passed the front window of the car he looked in. As he had expected, there was no one in the front seat, no one in the car at all.
'Get in.'
He put his hand to the door and peered into the back seat, which was a little cell, a little black jail with bars. It smelled of riveted steel. It smelled of harsh antiseptic; it smelled too clean and hard and metallic. There was nothing soft there.
'Now if you had a wife to give you an alibi,' said the iron voice. 'But-'
Uhere are you taking me?'
The car hesitated, or rather gave a faint whirring click, as if information, somewhere, was dropping card by punch- slotted card under electric eyes. 'To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies.'
He got in. The door shut with a soft thud. The police car rolled through the night avenues, flashing its dim lights ahead.
They passed one house on one street a moment later, one house in an entire city of houses that were dark, but this one particular house had all of its electric lights brightly lit, every window a loud yellow illumination, square and warm in the cool darkness.
'That's my house,' said Leonard Mead.
No one answered him.
The car moved down the empty riverbed streets and off away, leaving the empty streets with the empty sidewalks, and no sound and no motion all the rest of the chill November night.

Lotta people quote George Orwell but this guy, Ray Bradbury, wrote a really stunning short story that you can read in the link above as well.

I had an english teacher who made me study this and write an essay on it in my younger days, she used to mention that this sort of treatment was coming in my lifetime. Kinda prophetic in a way huh, both the story and a now blind teacher of mine.

I think this simple story speaks volumes about the topic given that it was written so long ago.

edit on 17-1-2011 by XXXN3O because: (no reason given)

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 07:30 PM
I feel ya OP, it seems like theres a reason that this story has been on the news 24/7 for the past 10 days. It's the same reason that they keep showing that mugshot of him smiling looking like Charlie Manson without the beard and swastika on his forehead(you would think thats the only picture of the guy as much as they show it). It's great fear. It's a great distraction from the illegal wars and the dwindling jobs and the rising gas and food prices etc. etc. They will use this as a way to program people to keep each other in line. Anyone eccentric or cast as an outsider will be labeled as such, and probably force medicated or something. "The Perfect Day" (by Ira Levin) here we come.
edit on 17-1-2011 by ghostsoldier78 because: Bad spelling

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 08:47 PM
reply to post by XXXN3O

Thanks i'm going to check that site out, I like good reads, especially well centered ones.
I had an English teacher that said the same things in 7th grade. Funny because back then everyone called him a conspiracy theorist............ Irony...........

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 09:01 PM

Originally posted by snowen20
reply to post by tech53

Not only would it have been abnormal in the 80s and early 90s to have seen such ludicrous security measures everywhere but I'm tempted to believe we wouldn't have accepted it.

This society.."American Society" has become more and more gelatinous and lazy when it comes to doing whats NORMAL. Forget about whats right, just do whats freaking normal for petes sake! we can worry about whats right later. Though it's obvious that in yesteryear, (that being pre 9/11) anything normal was almost always ethical.

well I dunno about normal but I'd sure as hell love for this society to shed its herd mentality. OH ...btw, been going through wiki leaks, I've been telling myself I would finally hit the site and omg. I've not even touched the military docs yet but my eyes are bulging and my outraged brain is exploding. Download their archives torrent, there isn't a lot of what you may be looking for but it's got some interesting stuff...
edit on 17-1-2011 by tech53 because: err...didn't want to double post

posted on Jan, 17 2011 @ 09:21 PM
reply to post by tech53

I've been meaning to check them out, and strangely enough I have yet to do so, then like an uber patriot I pretend I have a leg in the fight. Seriously so much is going on you have to be damn near a super human to catch it all. I'm definitely going to check them out, I saw some cable gate torrents on a torrent site and considered the download.

Like you say most of whats there may not be specifically what I'm touching on here, but it's no less relevant, I'll take a look-see..

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