In the meantime, the Organisational Management campus. Where we’re the resistance.
Where we’ve been brought to be the resistance. It’s the campus’s gift to itself: us – as resistance. To see what we might do. How we might surprise them. We’re exactly where they want us.
And perhaps where God wants us.
God is a swear-word, that’s all. As in: God, what kind of civilisation would build a campus like this? As in, God, every tower here is dipped in poison. As in, God, it really does feel like the last night of the world.
All we can do is gather up all the futility – all these failed days – and offer it up, I say. Everything botched. All the blind alleys. All the mediocre stuff. The futility. And fatelessness. That’s how it’d make sense: as a funeral pyre.
The world’s never been as barren, I say. As hollow. Listen to us. Everything we say just … echoes. With no one to hear.
Except each other, Sophia says.
And God, Io says.
And maybe God, I say. This is just the Organisational Management world now, isn’t it? We’ll never leave this campus, even if we leave this campus. Everything that will happen will happen here.
Then we have to pray for the campus to be transformed, Io says.
Our voices, I say. Our pleading. Our desire to be saved, but believing that there’s no salvation.
Speak for yourself, Io says.
Our desire to live, even though life is impossible in this world, I say. In what they’ve done to this world. And that’s the best of us: our desire.
Your prayer, Io says.
The impossibility of prayer, I say. Atheists’ prayer. Which is only self-hatred. Which is only the hatred for the conditions for all this. For our existence.
Our atheists’ world, I say. The atheism of air, of water, of the earth. The air hates being the air. The air’s just wandering lost in air. Just like water’s flowing lost in water. Just like water weeps tears in water. Just as we hate being ourselves, we who are without God.
And I know that there’s further to go – further down the spiral, I say. That we haven’t reach bottom yet. I know we’ll shake the bars of this world – demand the meaning of meaning. Cry out. But we’ll hear nothing. And no one will hear us.
Except each other, Sophia says. It’s company, isn’t it?
Company in misery, I say.
We think the same things, Sophia says. We use the same words. The same things occupy us …
You mean we’re at the bottom of the same pit, I say. That our blood slops with the same poison. That we’re made to tell the same lies.
Work in Progress 