In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “1984.”
Like the infinite prison of the Panoptican, comes the infinite horror of the room with yourself. A room of mirrors to exhibit your total reflection to yourself. This is the ultimate post-modern idea of reflection, with a deafening ambient silence, just a slow bass rumble and just the right amount of light to keep yourself awake. Comfortable? yes, making you at ease with your self; clothes – no, allowing the gaze of the whole of yourself.
You look and everywhere you see is yourself, you see the two dimensions at first. You enjoy your naked self and allow some fantasy to take over and perhaps some relief of pleasure. After the slow time of self pleasure comes the nightmares of nothing but you. You walk towards the mirrors, the infinite amount of mirrors. Perhaps the only escape is lying down on the floor, but your mind will not allow this for long.
You turn over, seeing the meat slab of the corpse, the view of your death. There is no escape from your reflection, from every blemish; nothing is perfect. The Panoptican is not torture of trying to escape the gaze of others, but the gaze of yourself, or that significant other.
Your eyes start to see beyond the eyes, you look and you start to see someone else. Who is this person, am I now dead to myself? The body takes over and the slow subconscious of all those hidden horrors take over, you become possessed by that person you have repressed for so long.
When you leave, the inverse of the self and the repressed self are inverted, the horror of the real you is exposed. The real horror is that you enjoy it, released!