There’s still a world outside to this campus, hard as it might be to believe, postgraduates. There’s a whole world out there, beyond the stony wastes at the campus-edge. That’s as yet unreached by the Organisational Management Campus. That’s as yet untouched by the University.
The bewildered of the world. The surplus population. The useless population. More useless than we are!
Redundant humanity. Useless humanity. Useless biomatter. Kept alive, just about. Allowed to live, sort of.
Unalive, in some sense. But undead, too.
Humanity in its defunct mode. Humanity, running on empty.
The disposable population, right. What are they for? What purpose do they serve? None, of course.
Human slurry. Human waste. Human slop, swilling in the human trough.
Who can’t even be bothered to live. Who can even be bothered to be bothered.
Half sterilized, most of them. Hardly breeding. Doing their best to die out. To diminish to nothing.
Unmanageable, in some sense. Not worth bothering with. Beneath the level of manageability. Of organisability. Beneath the organisers’ attention. Undeserving of it.
And in the way. Like dementia patients. Like bed blockers. Like the morbidly obese … Eating the wrong things. Having all the wrong habits.
Degraded, somehow. Toxic. They should be quarantined. Because how long will it be before they develop some prole myxomatosis? How long before they spread it to the rest of us?
And they’re not even wily. Not even grifters. They’re not even on the take. They aren’t even out for themselves, nor really. They’re not gang-banging. They aren’t linked to organised crime, or disorganised crime.
The shipped in. The bewildered of the world. The confused and the baffled. The perpetually staring into the air.
Who can live lives of zero meaning, apparently. Who can cope with purposelessness, supposedly. With meaninglessness.Imagine: we’ve bred people who don’t require meaning!
The inert. On autopilot. Who don’t need to be feared. From whom no civil war will ever come. Who need only to be monitored, passively. Gently surveilled – nothing more.
NEETS. Neither in education nor employment. Whose schooling didn’t take. Those for whom nothing can be done. Who can’t even look after their own interests.
The socially passed over. Social refuse. Socially dead. Just a remnant, that’s all. A nameless and powerless residue. Who don’t know how to live, but just live. Stubbornly! Persistently!
The equivalent of slurry. Of industrial waste. The human mire! The human morass! Nothing can be given to them that they wouldn’t vandalise. That they wouldn’t sabotage!
They’re not even defiant. Not even dangerous. They have no answer as to why they exist. Or what they are. Or what they’re for.
The real idiots. The real imbeciles. Mildly retarded. Truants – but endlessly so. Agelessly so.
Empty. Persisting, but pointlessly. Detached from all significance.
Awkward. Detached. Idly staring. Just looking on.
Who are never paying attention. Who are never alert. Never watchful.
Unpolished, haphazard. People who just are – superfluously. Unneeded.
The types who should be shunned. Avoided. Who are perpetually unseemly. Mildly retarded. Who should be comical. Even ridiculous. But who never really become laughable.
Unconcerned in some way. Uninterested. Who have fallen out of the world. Our of consensus reality.
Human rumours. Stalled at some threshold. Perpetually not-yet. Senseless … remnants. As of a dead language. A language no one speaks.
Deplorables. Who can barely even dress themselves. Who can’t even enunciate what they say. Whose words you can barely make out.
The kingdom of God that’s forgotten it’s a kingdom of God. The people of Jesus who are not yet the people of Jesus. The proletariat that will never come to itself as a proletariat.
Plebians. Idiots.
Which is why they’re our people out there, beyond the stony wastes, postgraduates. Which is why they’re our kind. To whom we’re always answerable. And whose places we keep.
Work in Progress 