I remember playing a video game as a kid that started off with a nameless soldier saying "it can't be hopeless", over and over again. He was fighting in a war against a horde of the undead, he'd lost one of his hands and was losing it all. All he could say was "it can't be hopeless," right up until the end of the prologue when he was killed like it was an afterthought.
The past few weeks I've known what he meant. Right now we're at least safe, and sort of secure, but getting here was a nightmare that just didn't stop, punctuated by a few safe houses with locked metal doors where we could at least drop our guns for a few hours and try to sleep through the scrabbling of the infected outside.
I miss my job. I never thought I'd say that, hell I don't think anyone really does. But it's true, I miss getting up at seven thirty, having a hot shower followed by a coffee and a bagel, catching the bus downtown and clocking on for another day of helping users find their files and making sure patch cables weren't being kicked out of their wall sockets. It felt so pointless then, like nothing really mattered and like I was just floating along waiting for something interesting.
God, I fucking hate interesting. Right now I'm holed up with three other people in a small concrete bunker on the border, we're not allowed to cross the state line or we'll get shot, and we can't go back into the state or we'll get eate... no not eaten. Ravened. All we can do is just engage in desultory conversation, or try to keep our hands and minds busy. Writing all this shit down isn't the only option I've got there but she's asleep for the first time in two days, so I might leave that her option alone and see if I can put anything like a coherent chronicle together here. Maybe it'll help organise the nightmares, rather than have them come at random.
I don't think it'll help get rid of them.