Post by Inmate W11Y on May 25, 2017 0:55:57 GMT
INMATE NUMBER AND SEX:
W11Y-Female
FAMILY, IF ANY:
Do not compute.
OCCUPATION:
Art historian
HABITS OF LIFE:
No time, no time for this, my friend. Places to see. People to be!
RELIGIOUS PERSUASION:
What's religion?
BROUGHT BY WHOM:
Stanislas Majarete de Jesus (probably her mother, but we'll go with the Mexican Day of the Dead skull she keeps with her inside her cell)
FORM OF INSANITY:
Schizophrenia
IF HEREDITARY:
Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...
IF DANGEROUS TO OTHERS:
N/A
IF DANGEROUS TO SELF:
Only when there's no chocolate.
IF DESTRUCTIVE TO PROPERTY:
N/A
MARKS OF VIOLENCE:
Are emotional scars valid?
OTHER FACTS INDICATING INSANITY:
Object ideation and obsessive behaviors, usually involving cats.
ORDER SIGNED BY: Mostly a living, breathing person with a supposed psychiatric degree, as per all the pretty papers in his/her office.
I think I had a name. Once. Long ago. Some days it is Minna. Other days it is Eleni. But I know, somehow, that these aren't my actual name. That name that I had, at one point. I lost it. Or they lost it for me. Maybe I let them lose it, in an effort to cease to become because becoming was painful. Always. Becoming meant that I had to present, masked or not, to society in general. However, masks are something I find difficult to remove. So, call me Minna, or Eleni, or Inmate W11Y.
Yes, I rather prefer to be referred to as a number. Unique, and yet, masking. Unique yet general. Unique yet it makes me another one of the nameless. Namelessness is good. It suits me. It suits us. Whoever ''us'' are. It's an unbecoming. A ceasing. As if our blood flowed backwards, organs shrinking, skin dissolving, until we return to nothingness. Unbecoming.
That's, perhaps, the only way in which we find ourselves. We go to the beginning. A beginning. A start. Tabula rasa. Zero societal imprinting. Just... zero ground.
Zero. Round number. Empty number. Kill the voices. Bring them back to naught. Wholeness is impossible. My fragments need to coalesce into a whole number, round, like zero. Solitary number. Empty.
Time for tea...
W11Y-Female
FAMILY, IF ANY:
Do not compute.
OCCUPATION:
Art historian
HABITS OF LIFE:
No time, no time for this, my friend. Places to see. People to be!
RELIGIOUS PERSUASION:
What's religion?
BROUGHT BY WHOM:
Stanislas Majarete de Jesus (probably her mother, but we'll go with the Mexican Day of the Dead skull she keeps with her inside her cell)
FORM OF INSANITY:
Schizophrenia
IF HEREDITARY:
Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...
IF DANGEROUS TO OTHERS:
N/A
IF DANGEROUS TO SELF:
Only when there's no chocolate.
IF DESTRUCTIVE TO PROPERTY:
N/A
MARKS OF VIOLENCE:
Are emotional scars valid?
OTHER FACTS INDICATING INSANITY:
Object ideation and obsessive behaviors, usually involving cats.
ORDER SIGNED BY: Mostly a living, breathing person with a supposed psychiatric degree, as per all the pretty papers in his/her office.
I think I had a name. Once. Long ago. Some days it is Minna. Other days it is Eleni. But I know, somehow, that these aren't my actual name. That name that I had, at one point. I lost it. Or they lost it for me. Maybe I let them lose it, in an effort to cease to become because becoming was painful. Always. Becoming meant that I had to present, masked or not, to society in general. However, masks are something I find difficult to remove. So, call me Minna, or Eleni, or Inmate W11Y.
Yes, I rather prefer to be referred to as a number. Unique, and yet, masking. Unique yet general. Unique yet it makes me another one of the nameless. Namelessness is good. It suits me. It suits us. Whoever ''us'' are. It's an unbecoming. A ceasing. As if our blood flowed backwards, organs shrinking, skin dissolving, until we return to nothingness. Unbecoming.
That's, perhaps, the only way in which we find ourselves. We go to the beginning. A beginning. A start. Tabula rasa. Zero societal imprinting. Just... zero ground.
Zero. Round number. Empty number. Kill the voices. Bring them back to naught. Wholeness is impossible. My fragments need to coalesce into a whole number, round, like zero. Solitary number. Empty.
Time for tea...
