... they're taking us apart

... they're taking us apart, piece by piece. They're doing their utmost to remove any trace that we were ever really here. It seems that soon we'll be little more than a slightly uncomfortable memory for some, or an ice-breaking story for others ("..of course, in my last company we were laid waste by a pestilence from the very bowels of..."); but never as a place of warm camaraderie and gentle humour.

I shall always endeavour to think of it as such.

As the cabinets rumble and crash about me I can sense that a real end to this place is coming. A finality of sorts is in the air, carried in the words of the destroyers that surround me, and on the faces of my weary colleagues, my co-conspirators; my fellow survivors.

I am certain, and it is with a certainty that grips at my very soul with fingers as cold and lifeless as the grave, that we don't have long here.

We'll be passing over to the 'other place' very soon.

... they continue to taunt us

... they continue to taunt us; even though they have left this place their presence is still an unpleasantness that we seem unable to shake.

Their voices can be heard incessantly throughout the day, as I sit at my desk: and they are always demanding voices, or challenging voices - never kind.

And this is making it harder for those who remain to start to come to terms with what we've been through recently, and to start thinking about moving on.

I still feel drained much of the time; and torn between endeavours that had been taken from me, and those which remain. As though the other me, this doppleganger, isn't pulling their weight somehow. I'm caught in some kind of half-life; split between my ordinary existence here, and some sick mockery of my previous self 'down there' like some form of continual suffering.

... and I'm not sure that I can see an end to this.

One of the initial survivors of last week has disappeared ! He was seen fleeing the premises on Monday night, burdened with great boxes of supplies & archaic machinery. I fear that he may have some half-baked notion to enter the belly of the beast, and confront the cause of our suffering.

our thoughts go with him, and we pray for his safe return.

V : 2 / F : 22 / MIA : 1

... the office is a wasteland

... the office is a wasteland this morning. The long walk down through the departments is a deeply disturbing journey, glimpsing the odd startled face peeping out from behind the wreckage of their desk, or a pile of boxes.

Every eye you meet mirrors exactly your own feelings, your own insecurities, your own guilt.
Every eye pleading with you for the answer to that one simply question... "why me?, why was I spared the blight ?"

But all of these faces turn away in fear as you make those last final steps into this department. Few seem to dare cross the threshold, to journey beyond the post trays: few can bare to face the sight of so many empty desks.

... so many lost people.

V : 2 / F : 22