morsla | exercises in futility

Dear diary.

I don't get the joke, but I think someone is laughing out there. We walk without directions, look but see nothing, and everyone talks so loudly they can't hear what's being said. I read some fantastic satire and laughed my head off, but when I found out I'd been reading the news I cried instead. War is peace; hate is love, and the goddless fucking pigs are back in charge of the animal house.

If one day can be lifetime in politics, how much of this country will die in the next three years? What do we have to do, to start this over again? I don't know where the truth became a losing policy, where being caught out lying to your country earned you the right to keep dragging it through the mud. I do know that I don't want to live there any more.

Maybe in three years, or six, or nine, or twelve, people will wake up and realise how far we've fallen. Maybe the damage will be so obvious by then that we'll finally get rid of the tumour that's been growing in the heart of this country, but cutting it out by that stage might just kill us anyway. Who cares what happens in the "next" election? In twenty years we'll still be living in the aftereffects of the next three.

Three more years of "no committment" on sustainability and greenhouse pollution. Three years to bind us into trade agreements which will see Bush's government tear apart our agricultural economy. Three years to continue putting nails into the Kyoto coffin, to scale up petroleum exploration on the reef, to keep on delaying research in alternative fuel sources.

I'd just like fresh water to drink, and air that's clean enough to breathe. I'd like to one day take family to see the colours on the Barrier Reef, before it bleaches and dies. To keep some of the forests that we have left, and to know that most of the species that were alive when I was born, are still surviving somewhere on this continent. But I don't know how long any of those things will last.