Paranoia 5
cause a classmate asked when the next chapter was coming out.
Chapter One: here
Chapter Two: here
Chapter Three: here
Chapter Four: here
5.
I must be completely honest with the good that has been done to this nation. There is good health and wealth for all people. For everyone, it is possible to live long and comfortable lives, with a secure job and steady pay, and enough money to afford the latest gadgets made available. In this place, there is a space and position for everyone to work together, if we just close our eyes to the outside world and ask no questions.
However, it is the nature of some to ask questions, to seek knowledge and to look beyond boundaries. In these people are those with the ability and passion to help all people of all nations, regardless of their own situation. Other people refuse to be silent with injustice done to others and refuse to let things be left alone. It is these people who question and push for the betterment of all people, all nations in a belief of global unity. They refuse to be cowed, to be herded, to let the blindfold cover their eyes. They believe in the truth, in an agenda other than their own, and they are the ones targetted as they arise from the ranks of students in the universities.
And then there are those like me.
I took some of the prescribed pills for a while, to know the truth in swallowing the little white tablets of poison. It was a rush, when the drug entered my system, invading and filling, dominating. I could feel as my heart beat faster and yet it did not break. I felt the quickening in my blood, like liquid fire and my hands twitched like my nerves had gone bad. I had to consciously ease my breathing and take long deep breaths to help calm down while the rest of my mind, my brain, my body screamed to move, to act, to run, to hide. The world became real. The world became dull. It flickered back and forth between being painfully loud and fast and hurried and slow, dull, muted and stale. It was intense, it was dead.
It was too distracting to my work, both officially and academically. I found myself driven to focus on obscure detailsm distracted from thing that really matters. I swear that if I had continued it I would have been driven into one of those nicely padded rooms with the soft understanding nurses to make sure I don't bash my head against the wall and scratch my eyes out. No, they would help me into my jacket and cut my nails, giving me the medicine to make me slow, and then they would close and lock the door of the room with bars on the windows, making me safe from everyone outside and maybe safe for myself.
Which is the point of the little white pills of poison I was taking. I stopped taking them because I prefer to fight my own invisible battles and be in control of my own reality, even when it twists into something strange. I would rather see with my eyes than someone else's, even if their words do not become false in my eyes. The world is, after all, both true and false. What one sees may only be true to that person, and may be something else to someone else. And so, what is true to someone, is false to another. People tend to see things through different eyes, even if they are looking at the same thing. This is a truth that the people here seem to have forgotten.
I must stop my narration here, or break my oath of confidence and reveal the presence of previous others who would prefer not to have their existence acknowledged, not even in mine own thoughts. You cannot betray what you do not think about or know. Unfortunately, I know too much, so I am in danger of giving everything away. A good thing that I am not prone to remain fixed on ony piece of knowledge for long. A mind-reader, I hazard to suggest, would have trouble at the mass of information found and brought out automatically about any given topic, regardless to its innocence.
However, appearances are decieving. The world is both true and false. What I see may not even exist to another's point of view, and the same vice versa. In fact, I may not exist. I may be a figment of someone's imagination who thinks is real. I could also be locked up in a room somewhere, giving lectures to monkies. It's all in how one views the world.
I see the world in various degrees of true and false, for even a lie can have a grain of truth. A good lie, after all, is always based on truth, distorted through the mirror of language and thought. I believe in the truth of all things, in the existence of meaning in all things. There are more than one language, more than one culture; should not the same be for the spirit and ultimate reality?
But that's a tangent. I knew of a person named Button Face, a face as the name implies, that is as cute as a button. The tragedy of Button Face. Never have there been such a sweeter person, a kind gentle soul treated so harshly by the world. Had I been in Button Face's position, there would have been venegence, there would have been brimstone and hellfire and the wrath that not even heaven can compare. The tragedy of Button Face, you see, is that Button Face was rejected from the world, ignored, bullied and beaten. Button Fac was abandoned for having such a cute, unusual face. But also, I think, for having such a noble soul. No matter what, Button Face understood, no matter the pain inflected, the misery and horror, Button Face understood. Button Face understood in ways that I cannot, in the nature of human beings and how humans hurt and cry and vent. And Button Face forgave.
I could not save Button Face from self sacrifice, not then. Not so long ago, before I raged and was blinded by myself. But I can save Marcy from vain self sacrifice, in repayment for the kindness, for the focus, for the waking. I can save.
Before I can go too far, I am interrupted by previous promises, not the promise, but still a promise all the same. It is totally possible for someone such as myself to become caught looking too much within, and not spend equal time looking outward. So I made a promise. I have masks, and roles to perform.
The guys, my fellows, have called me out, promising me that I will not be long from my work. I wonder which work they mean. But I go with them, to play games on the big screen, causing crashes and collapsing buildings, chasing each other around a contained digital background. It is carnivalesque.
Sometime during the night, I am challenged to a duel. It is some immature male pride, on both parts, and so I accept. I select my characters, ones which I am familiar with and that is a slight insult to my self proclaimed rival. He and his buddies sneer, taunting in order to save face. I and my own are silent, simply waiting. A few murmurs in the background crowd; there are a few bets. I ignore them.
The battle begins. The controller is a little heavy as it lies lightly in my hands. I do not grip until my knuckles are white, I do not pound on the buttons. I have already recorded the strengths and weaknesses of my opponent's characters. His skill, however...
A character is a tool, to play a game, to get something done. Each tool has a purpose, made a certain way to be used in a certain manner. To get the most out of a tool, you treat it with respect for what it was made to do and you only use it in that way. It is disrespectful to use a tool too far away from its intended purpose. I choose my tool, my character, for a reason, in that I know its purpose and how to get the job done. Which is, to say, I know know how to use my character.
I'm afraid it takes more than some spiritful pride and skill to win a duel against me. I must give credit where it is due; he did fight fiercly and refused to give up. His was a valiant effort, showing a brave face before defeat. So he has some of my respect.
I still don't know how much was betted on me, but then I don't really care that much so I haven't made an effort to find out. Suddenly it all seems so pointless, that this path is going nowhere. I sigh and give up my controller to someone else more eager to play. I stand and watch, silently assessing and recording, and trying not to think too hard.
I was promised, but what is a promise worth? It can easily be proven false, in any sort of events. I have no proof of the promise, due to my own steps in my security, not on the soft words of a prayer. What faith do I have, in a promise, in anything? If anyone who knows even one of my codenames confesses... god forbids! Should dear Marcy ever break, my promise could be for nought.
Who promised me? I know of a few who cling, hope and blindly trust in such promises, but I have yet to hear of from whom. Who is powerful enough to make such promises, never mind being able to fulfill and keep such absurd things.
Who?
Chapter One: here
Chapter Two: here
Chapter Three: here
Chapter Four: here
5.
I must be completely honest with the good that has been done to this nation. There is good health and wealth for all people. For everyone, it is possible to live long and comfortable lives, with a secure job and steady pay, and enough money to afford the latest gadgets made available. In this place, there is a space and position for everyone to work together, if we just close our eyes to the outside world and ask no questions.
However, it is the nature of some to ask questions, to seek knowledge and to look beyond boundaries. In these people are those with the ability and passion to help all people of all nations, regardless of their own situation. Other people refuse to be silent with injustice done to others and refuse to let things be left alone. It is these people who question and push for the betterment of all people, all nations in a belief of global unity. They refuse to be cowed, to be herded, to let the blindfold cover their eyes. They believe in the truth, in an agenda other than their own, and they are the ones targetted as they arise from the ranks of students in the universities.
And then there are those like me.
I took some of the prescribed pills for a while, to know the truth in swallowing the little white tablets of poison. It was a rush, when the drug entered my system, invading and filling, dominating. I could feel as my heart beat faster and yet it did not break. I felt the quickening in my blood, like liquid fire and my hands twitched like my nerves had gone bad. I had to consciously ease my breathing and take long deep breaths to help calm down while the rest of my mind, my brain, my body screamed to move, to act, to run, to hide. The world became real. The world became dull. It flickered back and forth between being painfully loud and fast and hurried and slow, dull, muted and stale. It was intense, it was dead.
It was too distracting to my work, both officially and academically. I found myself driven to focus on obscure detailsm distracted from thing that really matters. I swear that if I had continued it I would have been driven into one of those nicely padded rooms with the soft understanding nurses to make sure I don't bash my head against the wall and scratch my eyes out. No, they would help me into my jacket and cut my nails, giving me the medicine to make me slow, and then they would close and lock the door of the room with bars on the windows, making me safe from everyone outside and maybe safe for myself.
Which is the point of the little white pills of poison I was taking. I stopped taking them because I prefer to fight my own invisible battles and be in control of my own reality, even when it twists into something strange. I would rather see with my eyes than someone else's, even if their words do not become false in my eyes. The world is, after all, both true and false. What one sees may only be true to that person, and may be something else to someone else. And so, what is true to someone, is false to another. People tend to see things through different eyes, even if they are looking at the same thing. This is a truth that the people here seem to have forgotten.
I must stop my narration here, or break my oath of confidence and reveal the presence of previous others who would prefer not to have their existence acknowledged, not even in mine own thoughts. You cannot betray what you do not think about or know. Unfortunately, I know too much, so I am in danger of giving everything away. A good thing that I am not prone to remain fixed on ony piece of knowledge for long. A mind-reader, I hazard to suggest, would have trouble at the mass of information found and brought out automatically about any given topic, regardless to its innocence.
However, appearances are decieving. The world is both true and false. What I see may not even exist to another's point of view, and the same vice versa. In fact, I may not exist. I may be a figment of someone's imagination who thinks is real. I could also be locked up in a room somewhere, giving lectures to monkies. It's all in how one views the world.
I see the world in various degrees of true and false, for even a lie can have a grain of truth. A good lie, after all, is always based on truth, distorted through the mirror of language and thought. I believe in the truth of all things, in the existence of meaning in all things. There are more than one language, more than one culture; should not the same be for the spirit and ultimate reality?
But that's a tangent. I knew of a person named Button Face, a face as the name implies, that is as cute as a button. The tragedy of Button Face. Never have there been such a sweeter person, a kind gentle soul treated so harshly by the world. Had I been in Button Face's position, there would have been venegence, there would have been brimstone and hellfire and the wrath that not even heaven can compare. The tragedy of Button Face, you see, is that Button Face was rejected from the world, ignored, bullied and beaten. Button Fac was abandoned for having such a cute, unusual face. But also, I think, for having such a noble soul. No matter what, Button Face understood, no matter the pain inflected, the misery and horror, Button Face understood. Button Face understood in ways that I cannot, in the nature of human beings and how humans hurt and cry and vent. And Button Face forgave.
I could not save Button Face from self sacrifice, not then. Not so long ago, before I raged and was blinded by myself. But I can save Marcy from vain self sacrifice, in repayment for the kindness, for the focus, for the waking. I can save.
Before I can go too far, I am interrupted by previous promises, not the promise, but still a promise all the same. It is totally possible for someone such as myself to become caught looking too much within, and not spend equal time looking outward. So I made a promise. I have masks, and roles to perform.
The guys, my fellows, have called me out, promising me that I will not be long from my work. I wonder which work they mean. But I go with them, to play games on the big screen, causing crashes and collapsing buildings, chasing each other around a contained digital background. It is carnivalesque.
Sometime during the night, I am challenged to a duel. It is some immature male pride, on both parts, and so I accept. I select my characters, ones which I am familiar with and that is a slight insult to my self proclaimed rival. He and his buddies sneer, taunting in order to save face. I and my own are silent, simply waiting. A few murmurs in the background crowd; there are a few bets. I ignore them.
The battle begins. The controller is a little heavy as it lies lightly in my hands. I do not grip until my knuckles are white, I do not pound on the buttons. I have already recorded the strengths and weaknesses of my opponent's characters. His skill, however...
A character is a tool, to play a game, to get something done. Each tool has a purpose, made a certain way to be used in a certain manner. To get the most out of a tool, you treat it with respect for what it was made to do and you only use it in that way. It is disrespectful to use a tool too far away from its intended purpose. I choose my tool, my character, for a reason, in that I know its purpose and how to get the job done. Which is, to say, I know know how to use my character.
I'm afraid it takes more than some spiritful pride and skill to win a duel against me. I must give credit where it is due; he did fight fiercly and refused to give up. His was a valiant effort, showing a brave face before defeat. So he has some of my respect.
I still don't know how much was betted on me, but then I don't really care that much so I haven't made an effort to find out. Suddenly it all seems so pointless, that this path is going nowhere. I sigh and give up my controller to someone else more eager to play. I stand and watch, silently assessing and recording, and trying not to think too hard.
I was promised, but what is a promise worth? It can easily be proven false, in any sort of events. I have no proof of the promise, due to my own steps in my security, not on the soft words of a prayer. What faith do I have, in a promise, in anything? If anyone who knows even one of my codenames confesses... god forbids! Should dear Marcy ever break, my promise could be for nought.
Who promised me? I know of a few who cling, hope and blindly trust in such promises, but I have yet to hear of from whom. Who is powerful enough to make such promises, never mind being able to fulfill and keep such absurd things.
Who?