Title: down the rabbit-hole
Disclaimer: For better or for worse, this is mine. Alice in Wonderland, of course, was written by Lewis Carroll.
Form: 5 x 100 (series of five 100-word blocks)
Notes: Written along the lines of
anon_j_anon's
Panopticon, but this is nowhere near that in quality, and just a little experiment in setting text and using certain rhetorical devices, really. (And also the proof that, no matter how one reads, the writing process is quite a different one.) Suggestions and honest criticism are welcome.
Through his pipe, the Caterpillar blew
asking Alice: "Who are YOU?"
- but she hardly knew.
She looked at him askew.
"With reference to
your question," she said (with a sense of deja vu)
"I fear my answer will be untrue;
for ever since I fell through
a rabbit-hole; and shrank and grew,
and grew and shrank anew,
changing my point of view,
I no longer know how to construe
an identity that could be review -
- ed." She sneezed into the blue
pipe smoke; it smelled of the leather of her shoe.
"W-Who, then, are you?"
He didn't answer, so she bid him politely adieu
-~-~-
You're in the rabbit-hole.
Yes, you're in it right now.
Yes, that's why you hear him. Whose echoing voice echoes? The White Rabbit's - presumably.
He's very late. So are you. You might run into him later, but too late. Too late for this conversation, at least. Surely you don't think he can hear what you're saying when all you can hear of him are echoes? And rabbits don't have much of a long-term memory to speak of.
Here, only madmen talk face to face. Join the guild of masqueraders. Or go completely virtual. Lose your sense of time; echo yourself.
-~-~-
People who stare into mirrors all day aren't just Narcissists, they're echoes of what they could be.
So take down that godawful looking glass! Smash it down -
turn it into the smallest particles of glass you've ever seen!
Peripeteia? You think that's what this is? Even if I were counting acts - which I sure am not - don't you think I'd be doing my goddamn best to make sure they didn't line up all nice in the end? As if I'd actually follow those old, moldy traditions.
Here, we make our own rules. Why should than ours theirs be any better?
-~-~-
I don't know what this is. Neither do you. Not that I have any way of knowing what you know, but let's just say I can imagine the look of confusion on your face. The light from your big, white screen was shivering
oscillating
electromagnetic
wave
as your iris squeezed it onto the retina. Nonsense was translated into electrical impulse and sent to the occipital cortex of your brain. You reacted. I wasn't there to see it. Never was, never will be. Here, I am either too early or too late. You decide. Where the fiction ends is - your decision.
-~-~-
Even when you're not in the rabbit-hole, you think about going back. Mad the inhabitants may be, it's still the best place to relax that you know. And after a long day - well, why not?
You always hear, but never see the White Rabbit. You always see the Mad Hatter - he tells you the time. Always wrong, he is, but you're willing to pay that price for a cup of tea.
You're getting better around the Caterpillar. Even recited a poem, the last time.
It's become as real a world as your own.
Sometimes, you almost wish you could stay. . .