Is it all Just a Dream - the Age of Surveillance

Waking Up in the Age of Surveillance

Waking up in the morning—what does that even mean anymore? The body stirs, the eyes open, but the mind remains suspended in a nightmare that refuses to end. Reality, once a shared construct, now feels like a fragmented hallucination. The news feed scrolls like a Victorian obituary column—war, assassination, censorship. Each headline a dirge. Each image a ghost.

Is this a homage to a Horror Movie?

We once believed in mornings. Now, each dawn feels less like a beginning and more like a slow descent into the theatre of the absurd. The UK—once a bastion of eccentric liberty—has become a stage for Orwell’s Thought Police, only now the uniforms are digital, the batons are algorithms, and the telescreens fit in your palm.

Freedom of speech is recast as dissent; thought itself is policed under the banner of “content moderation.” A single glitch in the system, a hairline fracture from the party line, can summon a late-night knock at the door, a polite but pointed visit from the constabulary. Even silence has become incriminating—an empty space that is filled with suspicion.

We must all think one way...

This isn’t dystopia—it’s a tragedy dressed in modern drag. Victorian in its moral hypocrisy, 1984 in its surveillance apparatus, Kafkaesque in its bureaucratic absurdity. We are characters in a play we didn’t audition for, reciting lines we didn’t write, punished for thoughts we didn’t speak aloud.

If waking is a dream, then dreaming might be our last act of rebellion.