anon_j_anon (anon_j_anon) wrote,

Panopticon, 60-

Title: Panopticon
Author: jAnon
Disclaimer: This is mine.
Wordcount: 10 by 100



If I didn’t do it in Panopticon, I’m not going to do it here.

It’s a release valve, a way of escape.  The ultimate end and the ultimate freedom.  Also the ultimate defeat.

I fantasized about it because it was more real to me than life itself.  And because it was my choice.  I had no choices in Panopticon.  I had no rights.  Death, choosing death, was the only other power I had besides writing.

Okay, that didn’t sound really dramatic.  Dude, take a chill pill or something.


Christ, will you get out of your head for a second?


Action Action-Re.

Look, it gets dark and depressing sometimes, but it always passes.  We’re timing how fast we fall, how fast we bounce back.  Panopticon kind of screwed us over, but we’ve always had a high learning curve.

Someday we’ll look back on this writing and laugh.

I doesn’t know it, but I’s stronger than I thinks they are.  When I’s able to step back, I sees how far we’ve come. How much better things are from before.

As much as Panopticon rules I’s mind, I’s realizing their power.  In deconstructing and understanding, I can find the objectivity I seeks.


I’m taking the wheel.  I’s not feeling great.  I’ll send along your message.  I’s a little reclusive right now, but I’ll appreciate them later.  Thanks ahead of time.

Let me introduce myself.  I’m the person built from the rubble.  I’m the foundation that all the I’s stand on.  It’s not a contradiction that I’m being built while they stand on me.

You ask what this is about?  Simple.

It’s about power.

It’s about Panopticon.  My characters are taking all possible versions of Panopticon apart, examining it, and putting it back together so that it doesn’t control me—I control it.


Let me tell you a story.

A story of anger and betrayal.  A story common to so many people.  A story that should never happen to anyone, but happens all the time.  A story where no one and everyone is to blame.

Let me tell you a story, and let it rip you apart.

A story about power and violence.  A story that reflects an image back.  Is it your image?  Is it my image?  Is the face of mankind?  Is it the face of God, the Savior, the Bog?

I don’t know.

But let me tell you a story.


No!  We can’t do it.  You’re betraying us.  You promised never to betray us!

Yes you can.  You want to tell them.  You need to tell them.  Get this off your chest so you can move on.  Leave the prison of your mind.  Write freely.  Do this.  We’re doing this.

You can’t make me.  You can’t.

Have I ever led us astray?  You’ve trusted my instincts this far.  Have I ever led us astray?  Trust me.  We’re ready for this.  We’re ready to break free.

NO!  This is our secret.  This is the way we survived.  This is our safety.


Let me tell you a story.  (It’s not a true story, it’s not real, it never happened.  Fiction.)

About a child.  About children.  (Characters.)

Who were happy.  Free.  Bright.  (Characterization.)

And would have remained so if it hadn’t been for (plot development).

And quickly shed their childhoods because it was not safe to remain so trusting in the Panopticon.  (Setting.)

And quickly learned to speak in tongues, navigate the prison.  (Character development.)

Children can be remarkably resilient.  But also amazingly fragile.  (Theme of dichotomy.)

Let me tell you a story about two children and their adventures in the Panopticon.  (Title.)


This is the story.  You’re already reading it.

Is that too convoluted for you?  Is it like that cliché, the maze of mirrors, where you don’t know where you are except that you’re trapped, where you don’t know who you except in fragments of reflections?


Let me make this clear.


Hope you have a nice stay.

What’s that?  You want a tour?  It’s impossible to navigate?

I thought I had made this clear, but better say it again.


If you need anything, the concierge will gladly stare at you.

One more time?


“Hello.  You’re here for the lobotomy at 4:00?”

“Actually, I wondered if I could simply chuck the lot and replace it with a few CPUs.  I heard there’s a special promotion?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but that ended last week.  I can still schedule you for a consultation tomorrow at 2:00.”

“Great.  How long does surgery usually take?”

“Depending on the processing power and how much RAM you install, it could take up to five hours.”

“That’s not too bad.  It’s not painful, right?”

“No, sir, you won’t feel a thing.”

“Well I suppose that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”


Sorry, I don’t know how that happened.  I broke free again, tried to hijack the story.  Not the other I (I should give them names, shouldn’t I).  The other I is still curled up in a little ball.  That was “let’s burn everyone and kill emotions” I.

Hm?  Is it hard to manage them all?  To be honest, this is actually a vast improvement.  I used to be at everyone’s throats, threatening to take us down with them.  But yeah, it can be difficult.  I don’t think of them as rabid things.  They just have different needs.  Like children, really.


Oh shut up and stuff your condescension.  None of us here are children.

And here comes the defender.  I see you haven’t gotten over yourself.  Very mature.

As if you have.

Excuse me.  I didn’t see you comforting I.

You know what you are?  A moral masochist.

Trying to deflect the conversation won’t work.

Making pithy meta-comments won’t either.  Oh look at me, standing and herding the children.  Why don’t I put some fucking milk in my tea while I’m at it?

You see what I have to put up with?  This isn’t the worst of it.

Go to Bog.


Tags: writing

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