Spiderhead

The pursuit of manufactured obedience follows the pharmaceutical path, as Spiderhead's solo unattached dismal warden despotically pursues reckless inactivity. 

Unsupervised with serious responsibility he develops several potential new drugs, and tests them on his prison's inmates every decision he makes of his own free will.

Fret not concerned enthused viewer, he wants to keep things friendly and fun, and even strikes up acquaintances with his test subjects while becoming addicted to the drugs himself.

They're far off so far away inimically isolated from spirited criticism, idyllic mad spontaneous digressions only provocatively questioned by one rogue assistant. 

Seeking to make billions on joy and happiness not to mention free form conversation, he still can't dishonour discreet somnambulism with soporific sequestered sedulity. 

Problem: to make sure the obedience drug works he needs to challenge ethical parameters, and see if people will do horrifying things simply because they've been recommended.

Thus, he convinces a test subject to administer his "paranoia" drug to another, but "paranoia" isn't really the right word, it rather encourages excessive terror. 

The subject's driven to suicide after the dose is accidentally augmented. 

But genuine guilt indeed manifests.

With the mass megalomania in jeopardy. 

Here we go again with the pursuit of hegemony unilaterally applied, attempting to accomplish sadistic ends to alarmingly overwhelm free choice and expression.

Odd how so many people spend so much time consuming arts and entertainment, while also cutting down creative synergies, the 1970s and David Bowie were miracles.

The irony let loose in Spiderhead is that independence itself seeks mindless automatons, who'll listen and follow the guidance of whomever no matter what the proactive cost.

Like the dreamy demagogue preaching equality who locks everything down after the revolution, Abnesti proceeds to definitively ensure no one else like him will ever co-exist. 

As others have likely suggested, is it not better to mal/adroitly attune, independent instincts to constructive endeavours to promote diversity and innovation?

Without such inherent expression does decay not metastasize with fetid impersonality, and prevent the development of sundry alternatives from multivariably delineating enchanted metamorphosis? 

Never stop writing poems just because you're convinced someone else is better. 

Keep writing absurdity ad infinitum. 

Who cares if no one else is interested?

O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests)

A group of freespirited observant individuals head out to relax unassuming, their picnic presenting a wide host of delectable goods, the conversation light yet piqued and thought provoking, friendship electrifying as time saunters on.

An important figure is celebrating a marriage in the same embowered locale, and for a while lets them rest undisturbed, before deciding to bluntly interrupt them.

They have no authority throughout the land and there's no one they can call to complain, since the authorities are causing the disturbance, for shits and giggles, or so it seems.

Lines are drawn in the pasteurized sanctuary which cannot be freely crossed, as a goon exercises lavish contempt, and asks questions with no apparent purpose.

Rebellion defies him and attempts to depart only to be challenged head on and resolutely, as others seek peaceful relations, and their captors slowly lose interest.

But then the figure makes an appearance and offers sympathetic glad hands at first, inviting them to take part in the festivities, which are about to get under way.

Some see opportunity knocking and their mild-manners are quickly rewarded, with dialogue and coveted seats, first hand insights into the ruling party.

But one of them secretly resents his cherished freedoms being taken away, and disappears when no one is watching, to the dismay of his newfound liege.

A political hallucination allegorically attired interrogates freedom within stark constraints, as O slavnosti a hostech (A Report on the Party and Guests) discerns eruditely, and characters adopt instinctual remonstrance.

Or sycophancy, or just plain curiosity, the situation tempts what's out of the ordinary, but only after order's established, and initial taunts are dressed up bemused.

How to best proceed can depend upon manifold factors, and trying to clarify which set you've encountered can unsettle 'til patterns accrue.

Like any job interview their caught unaware, yet hoping to make a good impression, displaying their wits and applicable abilities, with lively caution and cheerful goodwill.

But the allegory extends beyond work and independent thought will not be tolerated.

No passing by unnoticed.

Every movement a stockpiled brand.

Nice, anyways, when there's freedom to be had in the evening, and relativistic wonder romanticizes life.

How leading figures lose sight of this at times I'll never know, apart from COVID-19 measures, even if they must lay down the law.

Collective working days, individualistic nights, perhaps provide a working balance.

Constant adherence to everything disenchants so much endeavour.