Wordcount: 10 by 100
This is where your limitations reveal themselves. This is where the core begins to show, despite the characters and deniability.
Fundamentally, you hate systems. You call them prisons. Word choice gives you away.
Get this into your head—they are. And they are necessary.
Necessarily, you buy into them. This piece of technology you hold in your hands? Made by the market, part of the Panopticon. Learn to live with it. Don’t waste energy fighting the inevitable.
Else be a fucking hypocrite. Be that immature idiot raging against the machine.
Get this into your head—not all systems are evil.
Can’t live with/without.
“An x64 processor is screaming along at billions of cycles per second to run the XNU kernel, which is frantically working through all the posix-specified abstraction to create the Darwin system underlying OS X, which in turn is straining to run Firefox and its Gecko renderer, which creates a Flash object which renders dozens of video frames every second.
“Because I wanted to see a cat jump into a box.
“I am a god.”
Forty years ago, your grandparents were hunched over wet green fields, made preserves to survive the winter, and used an outhouse.
You want me to bow? Want me to fucking bow?
Now take your contradiction and fucking shove it.
-Get over yourself and repeat after me: No one cares. No one gives two shits about your drama and your head, the convoluted space in your mind.
You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know that?
I’ve always known. It’s a fact. No one was there, no one could ever be there because they were too busy and bogged down with their own problems. No one was watching.
Never betray myself. Test everyone. Never unlearn.
Confusing past personal predicate with general global grammar.
Coloring my subjective sight, cramping my ability to arbitrate.
Compromise, time, adjust, recalibrate. Realign point of reference from ‘before’ to ‘now.’
Come back to now. Come back to now.
The facts are these:
I am no longer in Panopticon.
I am not an island.
Society and its governments are necessary.
No system is perfect.
It’s possible to unlearn paranoia.
The trap that trips protects and provides me. A double bind but better security.
This is where you choose safety over freedom, this is where you show yourself a coward.
Bouncing back and forth. A rubber ball. Elastic mind, elastic time.
Understand this: games have degrees. Once you played for live die be. Now you may simply play. Loss does not cost your personhood, victory does not require crushing your opponent.
The rules are in place to protect, not handicap.
When you were in Panopticon, everything was rigged in their favor. Playing by the rules was, by definition, defeat.
In absolute freedom, there are no rules. It yields chaos. You’ve studied this.
That is why freedom is regulated. To provide mobility and the flexibility of the game, without abject destruction.
Copy this out one hundred times. The presence of Law does not define a prison. Laws, specific and explicit, describe a system. The evaluation of whether those laws are right and just differentiates between prisons and systems.
Objection. This argument does not take into account the matter of punishment.
This discussion has the potential to be circuitous. Prisons created for those who break laws, laws created by a society of prisoners, societies turning citizens into prisoners. Underneath, dichotomy between rule of law and fear of punishment.
If a society has unjust laws but everyone believes in them, what is that?
This is a huge metaphor. I am reminding you.
It’s a valid discussion, but it’s not abstract. I speak in abstractions because it’s a character. I have the mask I crave, deniability as a back door.
Fear of punishment. Rule of law. Rigged games. Speaking sideways, encrypting codes.
Impressed into me like a brand. Panopticon is not only an eye, but an overpowering voice. Silent, cloud that clogs, smoke that chokes.
Don’t look at me. Don’t look at me.
If I can’t bear to live in systems, it’s because the system has always been arbitrary, inconsistent, all powerful, and devastating.
The thing about society is there’s no one to blame. No one to hold responsible.
A system of victims, a prison of perpetrators.
Wanting so badly to point fingers, find a scapegoat, declare a traitor. Find the adulteress and drag her through the streets, ready to stone her.
The only response?
Bend to the ground, write in the dust. Without saying a word. Without saying one fucking word.
Some people cast stones anyway. Their conscience might not be clean, but it’s cleaner than this cunt and hell if they’re going to be the one to get fucked over.
People are so diligent. Bent over books, typing on keyboards, standing in line.
Decency, cleanliness, improvements.
Dedicated to progress, devoted to the forward motion.
Enjoying the benefits of stability established, freedom already bought and paid. Riding on the credit of those before. Leaving an inheritance for those after.
Envy the regularity.
Marvel at the balance they’ve achieved between secure and free, rule and punish.
Some people sneer, saying sheeple.
Sneer back, because you can only despise this consistency if it’s all you’ve ever known.
Then remember. Fucking freedom of expression.
People have died for this. People fucking dream of this.
“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.”
I am resigned. From fingers madness flows.
I fight the void with words that spin and sear.
I wake to dream, and dreams drag me below.
The watchers roar in tongues I cannot know.
Mutating fluid, the rules are never clear.
The lessons learned through fear and scorn and blows.
I stand, defy—seek freedom, self, although
I am unsure it’s worth this price so dear.
Console myself, there’s other ways to go.