#unabstraction

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I don’t think abstraction is just “the person is gone.”

I think abstraction is ultimate collapse.

Not sadness. Not a panic attack. Not someone having a rough moment.

I mean the kind of collapse where a person has gone past what they can hold.

Past what they can explain.

Past what they can regulate.

Too far inside it to perform their way through.

Past the point where even “I’m okay” sounds like part of the performance.

Because if the person is still in there, then abstraction is not clean death.

It is not deletion.

It is not the end of personhood.

The person is not gone.

Stable access is.

...

Maybe that is why the word abstraction works so well. Not just emotionally, but structurally.

Something can still exist beneath the surface.

Still holding some part of its original shape.

Still there, somewhere under the noise.

But hidden from the ordinary ways we reach it.

---

The self is still somewhere inside the collapse.

Buried.

Corrupted.

Fragmented.

Drowning under too much static to answer clearly.

But not nothing.

Not erased.

Not gone.

Abstraction is what happens when the crisis becomes the body.

When the pain stops being private.

The jokes can only cover so much.

The mask can only hold for so long.

The performance can only stretch so far before something in it finally breaks.

And then there is no more hiding it.

Everything that could not be spoken, softened, joked through, masked, explained, or survived quietly becomes visible all at once.

Loudly.

Horribly.

Unreachably.

Abstraction is less like “monster transformation” and more like the body telling the truth when the person cannot anymore.

The hurt gets a shape.

The body becomes the scream.

---

And that makes Queenie feel even more important now.

Kinger remembering that darkness calmed her does not feel like background lore anymore.

It feels like regulation.

Less input.

Less demand.

Less reality pressing itself against someone who cannot hold reality anymore.

Darkness becomes a kind of mercy.

Not a cure.

Not salvation.

Not a magic fix.

Just quiet enough for the collapse to stop thrashing against everything around it.

Because if the person is still in there, then containment is not only “hide the monster.”

It is harm reduction.

Keep everyone safe.

Keep the person from hurting others.

Maybe keep the person from being hurt more.

Maybe comfort them, if comfort can still reach whatever part of them is left.

Because if someone can be calmed, then someone is still there to receive quiet.

---

Episode 9 makes unabstraction impossible to ignore.

Pomni does not treat Jax like he is simply gone.

She takes Kinger’s memory seriously enough to look for a way in.

And she does not only reach the abstracted body.

She enters the collapse.

Inside it, she finds pieces of him.

Different versions.

Different defenses.

Different ways a self can split when the whole person cannot stay together anymore.

I do not read those versions as proof that Jax is gone.

I read them more like pieces of him trying to survive the collapse in different ways.

The part that defends.

The part that lashes out.

The part that performs.

The part that is ashamed.

The part that still knows how to push Pomni away.

Not separate people, exactly.

Not random either.

More like masks, roles, defenses, and fragments of self still trying to protect something underneath.

And the key matters because it does not come from nowhere.

Some part of Jax helps Pomni go deeper.

Guides her closer.

Until she reaches the version of him standing under the streetlight.

And that version feels like core/true Jax to me.

Not “the real Jax” in a way that makes the other pieces fake.

But the most direct version of him Pomni can reach inside the abstraction.

So when he responds to her, and hugs her back, I do not read that as the abstracted form briefly acting human.

I read it as Jax himself still being accessible somewhere inside the collapse.

But he still does not come out.

And that matters.

Because being reached is not the same thing as being ready.

Being found is not the same thing as being able to return.

...

And then, near the end, there is the aquarium.

The containment space.

The place where the abstracted are being held.

And Pomni says they are starting to heal.

Not fixed. Not cured.

But not nothing.

Not gone.

Something is allowing healing to begin.

Maybe tiny healing.

Maybe unstable healing.

Maybe healing so early it barely looks like healing at all.

But still.

Something inside them can still receive quiet.

Something can still be held in a way that does not make the collapse worse.

And that changes the whole shape of it for me.

---

I think that is why this metaphor hits me differently.

Because I have also felt versions of that edge.

Not abstraction, obviously.

But collapse.

The kind where your mind goes foggy.

Where your body stops cooperating.

Where language disappears.

Where everything in you wants to shut down, detach, vanish, split, hide, or become impossible to reach.

The kind where there is no clean explanation left.

Only surviving the moment.

Only waiting for something in you to come back online.

...

I also know what it feels like to be lost and still alive.

To be unreachable and still there.

To sit in the dark and not be fixed, not be okay, not magically better, but still be a person inside it.

And outside help matters.

It does.

Sometimes you need someone else to sit there.

Someone else to lower the demand.

Someone else to believe there is still a person in there when you cannot feel like one.

Someone else to keep the space open until you can reach it again.

---

And maybe that is what unabstraction would really take.

Not one perfect rescue.

Not one perfect hug.

Not one perfect line that unlocks everything.

But time.

Quiet.

Safety.

Acceptance.

Help from the outside.

And movement from the inside.

Because being helped is not the same thing as being erased from the process.

...

At some point, some buried part of the person still has to answer.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

Maybe not even in words.

But somehow.

A reach.

A turn.

A choice so small it barely looks like choice yet.

Some part of them has to notice the hand being offered and become able to move toward it.

And maybe that does not mean the split disappears cleanly.

Maybe that is too simple.

Maybe coming back means the pieces that got separated by the collapse slowly learning they can exist closer together.

The part that is afraid.

The part that is angry.

The part that carried the blame.

The part that went silent.

The part that kept watch.

The part that wanted to disappear.

The part that still remembered there was a way back.

Not perfectly.

Not neatly.

Not as one clean, easy thing.

But close enough that one part no longer has to carry all the hurt alone.

Close enough that the old voice is not the only thing inside anymore.

Maybe not becoming one perfect thing.

Maybe just learning to stay in the same body without abandoning each other.

Close enough that You can start becoming I.

...

And that does not mean the person is being blamed for collapsing.

It means their personhood still matters.

Even buried.

Even broken.

Even almost impossible to reach.

It means some part of them still matters enough to answer.

Even if that answer is silent.

Even if it comes from one separated piece of the self.

Even if it is only the smallest movement toward the hand being offered.

---

Needing someone else does not mean you are gone.

It means there is still someone in there worth reaching.

But being reached is not the same thing as coming back.

It is only the beginning of the way back.

And the way back is the horrible part.

The exhausting part.

The part where help can reach you, but it cannot become you for you.

The part where someone can keep the space open, but some buried piece of you still has to move toward it.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

Just enough.

Enough to say:

I am not finished. Not yet.

And reach back.

Abstraction feels like death the way the Circus allows death to exist.

The hurt gets a shape. The body becomes the scream.

That is still the core of the read for me. The abstracted body is not just “monster now.” It is the hurt, fear, grief, shame, and overload becoming something the Circus can render. Everything the person could not hold, regulate, mask, joke through, explain, or survive quietly gets pushed outward until the body is the only language left.

But I do not think that means the person is simply gone.

I see it as the “You” trapped underneath the collapse.

-----

When someone abstracts, I don’t think the only question is, “Are they dead or alive?”

I think the better question is, “What does death mean in a world where the person is already existing through a digital body?”

The show is already playing with the idea that personhood can be stored, altered, distorted, hidden, scanned, or accessed through digital means. Abstraction being treated like corruption, overload, or inaccessibility makes sense inside the world.

And those are not all the same thing as deletion.

If something is deleted, it is gone from the system. If something is corrupted, it may still exist, but not in a readable or usable form. If something is overloaded, it might stop functioning the way it should, even if the core is still there. If something is inaccessible, the problem might be the pathway, not the existence of the thing itself.

I am not saying abstraction is literally one of those things in a technical way. I am saying that the Digital Circus gives the metaphor room to work differently than ordinary death.

A backup copy would not be the same as recovery to me. If Caine simply pulled an older version of someone from before the abstraction and placed them back into the Circus, that would raise a very uncomfortable question of whether that is actually the same person or just a replacement that looks close enough.

That is not the kind of unabstraction I am talking about.

What makes more sense to me is recovery of the current person. The one who went through the collapse. The one who is still somewhere under the pressure, even if the system cannot read them correctly anymore.

That distinction keeps unabstraction from feeling like a cheap reset.

The person would not come back untouched. They would not come back as some clean earlier version of themselves. They would come back as someone who had been through abstraction and survived it, which is a very different thing.

When I think about files, scans, corruption, and digital personhood, I am not thinking, “Oh, easy fix. Just restore the file.”

I am thinking the opposite, actually.

The fact that this is digital makes the horror stranger, not simpler. It means the person could be present but unreadable. Existing but unreachable. Still in the system, but no longer able to hold a stable form. The Circus can render, store, contain, and maybe eventually respond to that kind of collapse in ways a normal body could not.

That does not prove unabstraction by itself.

But it does make permanent erasure harder for me to accept as the only possible read.

Because Queenie can still respond to darkness. Jax can still be reached inside the collapse. The system still treats personhood as something that can be scanned, stored, accessed, and altered.

All of those details point in the same direction for me.

Not toward an easy return.

Toward the person not being fully gone.

-----

The aquarium/fort ending is where that idea starts to become more concrete.

At the end of the episode, we see Kinger and Pomni sitting at an aquarium.

The abstractions are there.

Pomni says something along the lines of, “The abstractions are beginning to heal.”

I don’t read that as “they are fixed now.”

They are still abstracted. They are not back. They are not suddenly safe in the way the others are safe. They are not sitting at the table explaining what happened to them.

But the space around them has changed.

They are somewhere calmer. Watched. Remembered. It is not just darkness as isolation anymore. It feels closer to darkness as reduced demand, or at least the start of that idea.

That connects back to Queenie for me. If darkness could calm her, then a calmer space is not just decoration. It can lower the pressure around the abstracted body. Less demand. Less stimulation. Less of the world pressing against someone already past capacity.

It also connects back to Jax, because Pomni reaching him did not bring him back right away. It showed that reaching was possible, but not immediate return.

The aquarium/fort feels like the kind of space that could make that reaching possible over time. Not by forcing the abstracted to return on command. Not by demanding that they act normal before they are capable of it. More like creating a place where the body is not being pushed further into threat every second.

Again, I don’t think this makes containment automatically good.

It is limited care. Imperfect care. Care that comes after the damage has already happened.

But it is still different from only hiding them away.

Kinger and Pomni are there with them.

And I think that matters.

-----

It seems to me that unabstraction would have to involve outside help, but inside effort.

Outside help can lower the fear. It can calm the space. It can reduce demand. It can keep the person from being abandoned to the worst shape their pain took. It can create the conditions where the body is not only reacting, attacking, or defending itself from everything nearby.

But outside help cannot do the entire return for them.

At some point, some part of the abstracted person has to be able to reach back. Not because they are being blamed for collapsing, or because they should have been stronger, or because they are responsible for saving themselves alone.

I mean coming back has to include their personhood.

If the “You” is still trapped under the collapse, then the way back has to involve that “You” becoming reachable again. Maybe not with words. Maybe not with a clear choice anyone else can recognize right away.

Trauma recovery is the closest real-world language I have for it. Coming back from something does not mean you return untouched. It does not mean you are suddenly fine, or the same as before, or perfectly grateful, or easy to be around, or healed in a way that makes everyone comfortable.

Recovery is usually messier than that.

It takes time. It takes trial and error. It takes effort that does not always look like effort from the outside. It takes support, regulation, safety, and a lot of failed attempts before something starts to hold. Sometimes progress is not a speech or a breakthrough. Sometimes it is just the body being less afraid than it was before.

If someone came back from abstraction, I would not expect them to come back 100% better. I would not even expect them to come back exactly the same.

Honestly, I think it would be stranger if they did.

The collapse would still have happened. Whatever broke badly enough to cause abstraction would still need to be dealt with after the return. Unabstraction would not erase that work. It would only make the work possible again.

None of that proves an easy return.

But it does make the idea of return feel emotionally and logically possible to me.

-----

When I first started writing about abstraction/Jax, it inspired me to create a poem about dissociation, parts of self, and what it means for a separated *you* to become *I* again.

CW obviously...

After Episode 9, abstraction feels less like clean death, “self-deletion,” or a simple monster transformation. To me, it feels more like the self collapsing past the point where it can stay recognizable, and the Circus rendering that collapse as an abstracted body.

The hurt gets a shape, and the body becomes the scream.

But I don’t think the person is gone. Buried, yes. Hard to reach, yes. Changed by the collapse, probably. But not erased. Still there, just no longer reachable through the usual ways.

-----

Episode 3 feels more important after Episode 9 because of what Kinger remembers about Queenie.

Darkness calmed her.

At first, that detail could read mostly as containment. Put the abstracted person somewhere dark. Keep them away. Keep everyone else safe.

And maybe it is partly that.

But after Episode 9, I have a harder time reading it as just that. I think darkness may also be something closer to regulation: less input, less demand, less fear, and less stimulation pressing against someone who has already gone past what they can hold.

That does not make darkness a cure. It does not make containment automatically kind or harmless. I don’t want to flatten it into that. But it does suggest that an abstracted person can still respond to environment, safety, quiet, and reduced demand.

If something can calm them, then something inside them is still capable of receiving the world.

Not normally. Not easily. But not never.

-----

Episode 9 builds on that idea with Jax.

Pomni does not treat him as simply gone. She takes what Kinger said seriously enough to look for a way to reach him.

And she does not only interact with Jax’s abstracted body. She enters the collapse and finds different versions of him inside it.

I don’t read those versions as proof that Jax has been erased. I read them more like split-off pieces of him trying to survive the collapse in different ways: defenses, masks, roles, and fragments of self that can still move, still react, and still guard something deeper.

That is why the key feels important to me. It does not come from nowhere. One version of Jax helps Pomni move further into his internal space, until she reaches the version of him standing alone under the streetlight.

I read that streetlight version as core/true Jax: not untouched, not magically whole, and not “the real Jax” in a way that makes the other pieces fake, but the most direct version of him Pomni is able to reach inside the abstraction.

So, when he responds to her and hugs her back, I don’t read that as the abstracted form briefly acting human. I read it as evidence that Jax himself is still accessible somewhere inside the collapse.

But he still does not return, and that distinction matters.

Being reachable is not the same thing as being ready.

-----

Jax’s file still existing supports that abstraction is not the loss of the person.

If abstraction were meant to be total erasure, the show could have framed him as fully deleted or completely unreachable. Instead, the file remains. The person is not back, but the possibility of access is not treated as gone forever either.

That feels intentional to me. Not proof of an easy cure. Not proof that everyone can return. But it does make abstraction harder for me to read as simple absence.

-----

The aquarium/containment space at the end pushes this further.

After the immediate crisis has passed, Pomni and Kinger are sitting by the aquarium, and Pomni says the abstracted are starting to heal.

That does not mean they are fixed. It does not mean unabstraction is easy. It does not prove everyone can come back. But it does suggest that the abstracted are not just being stored away as lost causes.

Something is allowing healing to begin.

Maybe that healing is tiny. Maybe it is unstable. Maybe it is not enough yet.

But it is not nothing.

And that changes how I read abstraction as a whole. I have a hard time reading it as “gone forever” when the show keeps giving us signs of response, access, memory, containment, and healing.

To me, abstraction feels more like serious damage than total disappearance. The person is still present, but access is unstable, incomplete, and not something anyone can force open from the outside.

-----

If unabstraction is possible, I don’t think it would be one perfect rescue where someone reaches in and magically pulls the person out.

Outside help is still necessary. Someone has to reach in, lower the fear, keep the space open, and remind the person that they are not gone or beyond reaching.

But the return still has to involve the person inside. Not because they are being blamed for collapsing, but because their personhood is still present inside the collapse. Some buried part of them has to become able to answer, even if the response is small, silent, delayed, or incomplete.

Maybe not with words. Maybe not quickly. Maybe not completely. Maybe only as a small response to quiet, safety, reduced demand, or being reached without being forced.

If abstraction is the ultimate collapse of stable access to the self, then unabstraction would not be flipping a switch. It would be the scattered pieces slowly becoming able to move closer together again.

Being reached is not the same thing as coming back.

But it means there is still someone there to reach.

And that is the beginning of the way back.

-----

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Note: Below is the more poetic/dramatic read of the same idea. I’ve heard it’s been coping and/or relatable to some. If you read, I hope it brings you comfort 💛

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-----

-----

I don’t think abstraction is just “the person is gone.”

I think abstraction is ultimate collapse.

Not sadness. Not a panic attack. Not someone having a rough moment.

I mean the kind of collapse where a person has gone past what they can hold.

Past what they can explain.

Past what they can regulate.

Too far inside it to perform their way through.

Past the point where even “I’m okay” sounds like part of the performance.

Because if the person is still in there, then abstraction is not clean death.

It is not deletion.

It is not the end of personhood.

The person is not gone.

Stable access is.

-----

Maybe that is why the word abstraction works so well. Not just emotionally, but structurally.

Something can still exist beneath the surface.

Still holding some part of its original shape.

Still there, somewhere under the noise.

But hidden from the ordinary ways we reach it.

The self is still somewhere inside the collapse.

Buried.

Corrupted.

Fragmented.

Drowning under too much static to answer clearly.

But not nothing.

Not erased.

Not gone.

Abstraction is what happens when the crisis becomes the body.

When the pain stops being private.

The jokes can only cover so much.

The mask can only hold for so long.

The performance can only stretch so far before something in it finally breaks.

And then there is no more hiding it.

Everything that could not be spoken, softened, joked through, masked, explained, or survived quietly becomes visible all at once.

Loudly.

Horribly.

Unreachably.

Abstraction is less like “monster transformation” and more like the body telling the truth when the person cannot anymore.

The hurt gets a shape.

The body becomes the scream.

And that makes Queenie feel even more important now.

Kinger remembering that darkness calmed her does not feel like background lore anymore.

It feels like regulation.

Less input.

Less demand.

Less reality pressing itself against someone who cannot hold reality anymore.

Darkness becomes a kind of mercy.

Not a cure.

Not salvation.

Not a magic fix.

Just quiet enough for the collapse to stop thrashing against everything around it.

Because if the person is still in there, then containment is not only “hide the monster.”

It is harm reduction.

Keep everyone safe.

Keep the person from hurting others.

Maybe keep the person from being hurt more.

Maybe comfort them, if comfort can still reach whatever part of them is left.

Because if someone can be calmed, then someone is still there to receive quiet.

Episode 9 makes unabstraction impossible to ignore.

Pomni does not treat Jax like he is simply gone.

She takes Kinger’s memory seriously enough to look for a way in.

And she does not only reach the abstracted body.

She enters the collapse.

Inside it, she finds pieces of him.

Different versions.

Different defenses.

Different ways a self can split when the whole person cannot stay together anymore.

I do not read those versions as proof that Jax is gone.

I read them more like pieces of him trying to survive the collapse in different ways.

The part that defends.

The part that lashes out.

The part that performs.

The part that is ashamed.

The part that still knows how to push Pomni away.

Not separate people, exactly.

Not random either.

More like masks, roles, defenses, and fragments of self still trying to protect something underneath.

And the key matters because it does not come from nowhere.

Some part of Jax helps Pomni go deeper.

Guides her closer.

Until she reaches the version of him standing under the streetlight.

And that version feels like core/true Jax to me.

Not “the real Jax” in a way that makes the other pieces fake.

But the most direct version of him Pomni can reach inside the abstraction.

So when he responds to her, and hugs her back, I do not read that as the abstracted form briefly acting human.

I read it as Jax himself still being accessible somewhere inside the collapse.

But he still does not come out.

And that matters.

Because being reached is not the same thing as being ready.

Being found is not the same thing as being able to return.

-----

And then, near the end, there is the aquarium.

The containment space.

The place where the abstracted are being held.

And Pomni says they are starting to heal.

Not fixed. Not cured.

But not nothing.

Not gone.

Something is allowing healing to begin.

Maybe tiny healing.

Maybe unstable healing.

Maybe healing so early it barely looks like healing at all.

But still.

Something inside them can still receive quiet.

Something can still be held in a way that does not make the collapse worse.

And that changes the whole shape of it for me.

I think that is why this metaphor hits me differently.

Because I have also felt versions of that edge.

Not abstraction, obviously.

But collapse.

The kind where your mind goes foggy.

Where your body stops cooperating.

Where language disappears.

Where everything in you wants to shut down, detach, vanish, split, hide, or become impossible to reach.

The kind where there is no clean explanation left.

Only surviving the moment.

Only waiting for something in you to come back online.

-----

I also know what it feels like to be lost and still alive.

To be unreachable and still there.

To sit in the dark and not be fixed, not be okay, not magically better, but still be a person inside it.

And outside help matters.

It does.

Sometimes you need someone else to sit there.

Someone else to lower the demand.

Someone else to believe there is still a person in there when you cannot feel like one.

Someone else to keep the space open until you can reach it again.

And maybe that is what unabstraction would really take.

Not one perfect rescue.

Not one perfect hug.

Not one perfect line that unlocks everything.

But time.

Quiet.

Safety.

Acceptance.

Help from the outside.

And movement from the inside.

Because being helped is not the same thing as being erased from the process.

-----

At some point, some buried part of the person still has to answer.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

Maybe not even in words.

But somehow.

A reach.

A turn.

A choice so small it barely looks like choice yet.

Some part of them has to notice the hand being offered and become able to move toward it.

And maybe that does not mean the split disappears cleanly.

Maybe that is too simple.

Maybe coming back means the pieces that got separated by the collapse slowly learning they can exist closer together.

The part that is afraid.

The part that is angry.

The part that carried the blame.

The part that went silent.

The part that kept watch.

The part that wanted to disappear.

The part that still remembered there was a way back.

Not perfectly.

Not neatly.

Not as one clean, easy thing.

But close enough that one part no longer has to carry all the hurt alone.

Close enough that the old voice is not the only thing inside anymore.

Maybe not becoming one perfect thing.

Maybe just learning to stay in the same body without abandoning each other.

Close enough that You can start becoming I.

-----

And that does not mean the person is being blamed for collapsing.

It means their personhood still matters.

Even buried.

Even broken.

Even almost impossible to reach.

It means some part of them still matters enough to answer.

Even if that answer is silent.

Even if it comes from one separated piece of the self.

Even if it is only the smallest movement toward the hand being offered.

Needing someone else does not mean you are gone.

It means there is still someone in there worth reaching.

But being reached is not the same thing as coming back.

It is only the beginning of the way back.

And the way back is the horrible part.

The exhausting part.

The part where help can reach you, but it cannot become you for you.

The part where someone can keep the space open, but some buried piece of you still has to move toward it.

Not all at once.

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

Just enough.

Enough to say:

I am not finished. Not yet.