End of Chapter 1
“Wasn’t it an experience? I never thought it could get so escalated.”
“It truly did escalate, but let’s ponder, mon ami, as we stand amidst the wreckage of dreams and illusions: what masks are we wearing now? What roles have we assumed in this grand play, and at what cost? The theater of the absurd continues, and we, unwitting actors, must decide whether to embrace the script or write our own.”
“We are writing our own mon ami; we are indeed. The rotation of the masks on our faces doesn’t tire us; we take our power from it. We are not so different than the seamster after all. In his words, the seamster offers a mirror, reflecting the dichotomy of existence—the eternal battle between being and seeming. But his mirror is rigged and only reflects the artificial light. Our mirror reflects the shadows; our mirrors are hanging from our necks; our compass is in the dark.”
Let us continue our journey toward the temple of thought as I tell you more about how this place functions.
In the black market in the basement, you could find masks that would look as if they were stitched. Upon purchasing one, the ones who were still unsure of getting stitched could also be welcome in the stitched community.
Why would you do that?
Well, as an unstitched person, you have a problem. Now that “the stitched” are growing in number, they look down on those who walk barefaced or with a different mask every day. The pressure of forced conformity bears heavily on our souls every day. Their intrusive colors penetrate our treasured authenticity.
Now that I tell you, you can already notice they are staring at us. I know others have also felt this because I once found, by chance, a confession in the letters on my barefaced inmate's desk. He said, "I was ashamed of myself when I realized life was a costume party, and I attended with my real face." You see, he thought this was life and never knew I was his inmate. He lived his life in the depths of the ocean of solitude. He never knew that after his death, his notes and letters would be published for everyone to read.
Oh no, please don't think of me as someone who would read other people's letters regularly; it was an accident.
You see, I first realized that maybe there are walls to this place when I kept hearing about those proud ones who were talking about something alien to this place, somewhere outside. However, I used to always wonder, If you went there, why did you come back? Is it that you missed your inmates, or that you feel pity for us, or is it that you found a profound love for us who still have not seen outside and dreamed of our potential if more of us could be outside? Are they looking for revenge or wanting to prove a point? I know now, at least to some extent, after going out and coming back again, but I will tell you more about that when we visit the wall.
The stitched ones, however, are deaf to the truth of the words spoken by them. To them, these utterances are mere background noise, perhaps fleetingly considered before drifting into their slumbers. By dawn, any fleeting thoughts are forgotten, lost in the rush to the game room.
The game rooms are our occupation, our tribute to the life given to us in these cells. Some play the games for sport, some out of boredom, and some for sustenance. There, a peculiar game called 'Fortune' holds sway—a game so enthralling that souls are crushed for just one more chance at the gamble. Success in this game, on the condition of adherence to its rules and a touch of luck, promises lavish rewards. The initial share is paid to the faceless man and his accomplices, offering the winners everything advertised and more. The promise of the seamster, that tailored dream, is only achieved by playing the game.
However, no one can refrain from playing it if they want to have their basic needs sustained.
In the early days, the faceless masters were negligent. With a scarcity of stitched players devoted to prosperity who would be willing to pay anything for it, their cut from the game’s rewards was huge. Fueling resentment among the inmates was so intense that it led to the burning of game rooms and massive strikes. Eventually, the masters adapted. They increased the odds of winning, even fostering the illusion that ordinary players could host their own games, betting on the common man’s greed.
But their tactics evolved further. They ventured beyond the prison walls, bringing in clueless new inmates to populate the less desirable, lower-income game rooms. These were games nobody truly wished to play, yet they were essential for maintaining the comfort of the existing inmates, who had now become a priority to appease.
The masters of the game became more adept at concealing their influence. They began employing actors to oversee clusters of game rooms as the number of games burgeoned and their management grew increasingly complex. These actors were tasked not only with oversight but also with enhancing the gaming experience. They improved the hallways, infused luxury into the game rooms, and provided inmates with better, larger, more comfortable cells, as well as entertainment and further education for the more challenging and skill-based games. They also developed infrastructure to facilitate inmate communication and recreation, all designed to divert attention from the prison walls and the true nature of our confinement. These actors are chosen by inmates through a vote in order to give the masses the illusion of control. The actors are a selection of the thoughts and feelings of a particular section or group of inmates. They play so that my fellow inmates feel represented.
Anyway, as you can imagine, I and many others whom I can relate to stopped believing in the scheme, and we have lost respect for it.
The faceless men are also completely aware of this shift, and with that acknowledgment, many new developments are coming forth every day.
One of the most astonishing developments I recently observed was on one of the highest floors of the prison: the Freedom Manufacturing Unit. Here, the stitched ones, hand in hand with the seamster, labor intensively to create a plethora of choices for the inmates, giving the illusion of freedom through a vast array of pre-selected options. These little nuggets of freedom are essential for maintaining the sanity of the stitched. To take care of the possibility of a change of heart on their behalf. To make sure they are distracted from the feeling of suffocation under the mask. The feeling that makes you cling to the mask, ripping it off your face to grasp a breath of fresh air. That sigh of freedom you would give out destroys, like a tempest, all the systems they’ve made.
In a sense, life has been simplified here. Basic needs are met through participation in the games. Survival is guaranteed as long as one plays; anything beyond that is a luxury, unknown to our tribal ancestors. Yet, we pay for every little thing, even the air we breathe. Our luxurious lifestyle pollutes the air, necessitating further payments for its purification.
Meanwhile, the fortunate ones grow increasingly affluent and powerful. Their diminishing imagination betrays them. They will never be able to imagine a world without constant growth. And yet, this growth comes at a cost that every inmate must bear, whether willingly or not, whether responsible or not. Things that were free before are now priced in for their added value.
Upon entry to this place, the terms are non-negotiable. Without an agreement, one cannot access the benefits. This is when the wall begins to materialize in the foggy distance, a fog comprised of our future desires and the distractions of the game. I will take you to the confines after I show you around.
Oh, I beg you an apology for my contempt for this place, and the passion of defying it completely distracted me from telling something about myself, so maybe in light of that, you might be able to have a more nuanced idea of this place and how my past affected my view of it.
And so, you might wonder, who am I to pass judgment on all this? Indeed, who am I to judge?
