This isn’t real. It’s some computer game. No one can believe in this. I don’t believe in it. It’s some virtual environment. These aren’t our real bodies.
I have the feeling that we’re not in Newcastle anymore. We’ve passed through some stargate, or whatever. We’re on the other side of something. The normal rules don’t apply here.
This isn’t the real campus. It’s a spiritual campus.
This is Hell. Hell become a campus.
Hell’s cold. Hell’s freezing.
We’ve left the old world behind. Left history behind. Left Newcastle behind.
There’s some terrible heaviness. A wooziness. It’s like nothing’s happening properly. Things aren’t ending. Or beginning. Or anything.
It’s like we’re being played. Like something’s working through us. Programming us. Guiding us.
It’s the campus. That’s the way it operates on us. The very way it’s built.
Like it’s nudging us to go where it wants us to. To do what it wants to do. Sure behavioural psychology. They’ve worked out how to control us. The laws of human nature.
Are there laws? Even for us?
Organisational Management’s just reeling us in.
What if this is all there is? All there’s going to be now. What if the past just disappeared. What if it’s just Organisational Management from now on and forever?
Whisper some words, Io. Help us. Tell some things, Io. We don’t believe like you do. But your belief helps us.
Tell us what you told Fiver. We saw you whispering to him. Comfort us. Quote some scripture what do you say people in need. Something from the psalms. What words do you say over the dead? Because we’re dead, spiritually.
This is a despair-machine, their whole campus. A despair-inducing machine, the whole campus. A despair abyss. A horror machine.
How come we see the horror and no one else does?
That’s our role: to see the horror. To let it sink into us. To register the depths. To let it permeate us.
And then what?
We have to feel the grief. Give it its head. Give it its season.
There’s a death we have to die. A death to this. We have to let it happen.
And then what? Will we be reborn?
There’s a plan that’s greater than us. Greater than anything.
I think Fiver is in a protective coma.
I don’t blame him.
I’ll bet if we died now, we’d be reborn on this camps. We’d respawn. I’ll bet we’re immortal in some ghoulish way.
How deep does our despair go? How profound, our desire for repentance? All the way down? Or is there something else?
The Organisational Management campus cannot be. The Organisational Management campus cannot exist. It’s an outrage. And it knows it. It knows – those buildings know. The traitors rivulets: they know. The hypnotic paving stones. The lines of trees. The zones – all of them. They know …
Work in Progress 