My Time. (06/08/04)
		I'll begin by thanking all who are reading this. I have been chosen to speak on behalf of many people you will never get to know, and I only hope I can properly represent them. There were a lot of discussions on whether or not this letter should be written and the consequences that may result from it. In the end, it was decided that the future you have given us is now our present, and therefore cannot be changed. Try to remain open-minded when I tell you that I currently live in the year 2087. Like my grandfather, I hold a genuine interest in community development and the politics that carry it along. Although a lot of things have changed over the years, the process through which ideas become reality is still a slow one. The elected men and women that shape our surroundings are often criticized for appearing sluggish in their decisions, but trust me when I say it is important to consider every side to a story before approving it for publishing. Democracy is now a global philosophy in my time, and even with its flaws, it is the most efficient and fair way of getting things done. I am very familiar with the world you now live in, especially the villages around Cape Sable Island and Barrington. My parents continued documenting the area's history after my grandfather passed away, and there was a large room in our home dedicated to the thousands of pages collected by them over the years. When I was a young girl, I remember slipping in there after school while my parents were at work, the room off-limits to us kids. One day, I came across a faded white binder with The Hawk Road written on the front. There were many stories dealing with local subjects inside, some silly and some serious. I read every one at least twice, then one day decided to ask Dad about it. He smiled even though I had disobeyed him. He turned on the wall-screen, and spoke, "The hawk road dot com" into the speaker. A virtual Assistant appeared on the screen wearing a sou-wester and rubber boots. Through voice commands, he navigated to something called The Rumour Clipboard. Dad explained that it had been around for fourty-five years and was one of the first places people could go and write their thoughts down for everyone to see. He left the room and told me to take a look around after I registered an account with the Assistant. Before long, it was time for bed. As he tucked me in he told me he had a surprise, and instead of loading a 3-D book into the far wall like he usually did, he opened an old-looking paper folder and began reading with his voice, something he had never done. He did this almost every night for months, reading the thoughts of those so many years before, until one day he brought a large box into my room filled with many of the same folders. He told me I could read them myself from now on. As I finished one box, he would take it and bring me another. Mom found this interest of mine strange at such a young age, but I heard Dad tell her quietly one night that history shouldn't answer to time. The folders were more fragile and their pages barely readable as the last of the boxes were finished. One day, after my sixteenth birthday, Dad gave me the last box. He told me to read it carefully and slowly, and to let him know when I was finished. I told him I would. The posts were generally sloppy, often veering off topic, with quite a lot of swearing and anger toward fellow members. It was kind of like reading the walls of a bathroom stall. I found it fascinating, though, and started to realize why Dad had singled out its importance.
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