9/8. I rotate between the hardworking cog in the machine and the underlying cynicism of rebellion. I write because talking would be suicide – I may have taken unprecedented steps in voicing opinions but even these are masked by coding.

I feel these blogs I write to you will one day become a manifesto. Once we are free – if we are ever free – this manifesto may be the reason that a spark became a flame. I will be long dead before then. If the newest version of the encryptor fails again, I may be dead sooner. Despite these fears, I have to write, I am drawn in a way I do not understand. It is like having an affair, although these days with PersonalTracker such a thing is impossible. I remember a time when husbands would stray and wives would play, but now our global positions are regimented, recorded and processed.

My moods of late have dropped from the lesser cynicism of the last few months to a new burning hate of the machine. You may have noticed.

10/8. Today I will see dead comrades scattered in the wind. Or at least the turbine that constitutes as wind. I have no idea if these people shared my thoughts or rebellious underbelly. Considering that in three hours I will see the dusted remains of their once breathing bodies scattered before me, I can assume they did. This gives me hope, because for a very long time I considered myself insane because I was the minority of one. This evolved to feeling that I was the only sane person in a world of insanity, the only person to see through daily experience of lies and hate. I have no description for how I feel now.

18/8. There was a time when the 'weekend' was a genuine bookend between two working weeks. Now, the word weekend is just an archaic term similar to chalkboard, steamtrain or government. We are all aware what these words mean, but they have little impact on our everyday lives. Our full working week takes all the waking hours a person can give, and then some more. The reward for such efforts is a digital number that passes through what was once a bank account and directly to our creditors – such as food suppliers, heating providers and travel companies. But our W.A.G.E. is mainly passed to the National Taxing program, where each of us works for the privilege of breathing the air provided by the systems in power, and walking the land that was stolen from us.

31/8. Deep cynicism has to be hidden completely from the masses. Every word spoken has to masked, sarcasm is a thing of the distant past. When speaking with the general public, or with colleagues – even with some family members – my truth can almost never be told. I'm not a hateful person, in fact I'm a very tolerant person, but the fact of the matter is that I live in a hateful time, run by intolerance. This is why my words are digitally coded when they are written, and biologically coded when they are spoken. I sometimes play games with myself and see if I can say the closest thing to what I'm thinking, and yet mask it enough so as to sound as though I'm saying the opposite. It's a fun game, but I do play it too much around people I can't trust.

I have adopted a pet. Pets are no longer common, but they do exist. The main reason most people no longer keep pets is because of their initial expense. In my case, the pet found me. He's a bedraggled thing, a loner, a militant. He's a cat, and therefore naturally devious, naturally has more behind his eyes than he would let you know. It's a good thing he can't talk, because he doesn't have to play the games I play when I speak.

?/?. The animal is ragged and weary looking and probably near its own death. In this we have a common bond. My skin no longer sees daylight, and as a race we have become pallid. I can remember when we could spend time outside – a near impossibility now with the destructive weather, spycams and the fact that practically all open space has been eaten by large swathes of concrete and iron. Our existence is now carried out under cover, away from what remains of nature. A nature that has tried with increasing power to rid itself of the infestation that is humankind. An infestation that has almost lead to its own demise on many occasions and yet it lives on and will grow strong once more to battle the ills we have caused over the millennia.

?/?. Another mysterious disappearance, without notice there is a gap where someone once lived and breathed their noxious life.

?/?. The cat that has befriended me is now a daily visitor. He waits outside patiently until I feed him, and will ridicule the loneliness of modern life by giving affection for the price of just some small scraps of food. His intelligent eyes have seen more than he could ever tell, but perhaps he recognises his own wasted self when he looks at me. His thin frame has never known fat, and his patchy fur hangs in matted tufts. My thin frame hasn't known fat for many years, and my hair is an indicator of bad health – my eyes also recognise a common soul.

11/5. I have had to find a new residence as I was feeling paranoid about the communications that I'm compelled to make – and finding new accommodation is a very risky game itself. Due to my new living arrangements, I feel that I have bought myself some time and my sweeping fear has lessened, despite the lies I had to tell the authorities to ensure my move proceeded. I was lucky in the fact that an oldgen citizen died and her living quarters became available. By telling the authorities that I wanted to take on the task of a Guardian I was able to move to a different building where the surrounding quarters are filled with oldgens who are less likely to pry. In exchange for such a privilege – moving home is not something done on a whim – I have been tasked with 'looking over' the building and its residents. This means I will act as another set of eyes and ears and should inform the local powers of anything untoward. As my record is exemplary, my request was granted and I took over my new role and residence a few months ago.

Physically moving was easy as my belongings fit effortlessly in a rucksack, but time was spent waiting for my bedraggled friend to arrive for his food. He seemed more than compliant as I coaxed him into a box I had prepared for his travels, and even during transit he seemed unwilling to question what was happening to him. Perhaps comfortable with my presence, or safe in the knowledge that I would feed him in the near future, the cat made the journey a few blocks over to our new home with little fuss.

And so dear friend, it has been a while since I communicated for this very reason, I have taken the past few months to ensure my complete safety and gain the trust of the building's residents. I had lived in my previous apartment for many years and knew every detail of its existence, so I took my time in ensuring I had total faith in my new surroundings.

12/5. The heat has been disturbing, everything is covered with a layer of sweat and moisture. As we run like rats in tunnels, we lubricate the walls with our own fluids.

13/5. Less is more – this is particularly true of late. Since my move and subsequent quiet period I have grown in confidence that my encryptor is thoroughly untraced, and as such I am able to write more frequently and at more length. In the months living in this new accommodation – home would be too much of a strong word – I have pulled every wall panel away from its frame to look at the murky world within. Working quietly and late at night, I have been able to comprehensively check the entire living area for anything that may be watching or listening to me. Using my new Guardian role has also benefitted me greatly – every citizen of this block is an oldgen, and they are notorious for remembering the old ways, when we lived in a more tolerant time. These withered old shells are the true anarchists of the time, they conform less and care about an older, more relaxed way of living. Things have changed greatly in my time, but the oldgens have many more years on me. The wonders of modern science have kept these wrecks alive past their time, and many of the inhabitants of this building are in their C10's – a phrase coined for those between 100 and 110 – but they spend most of their time in a medically prescribed drug haze. Whilst mobile and compliant, they care little about me, and little about our communications should they ever find out they exist.