Memories of Ink and Loss

(A Brief and Unavoidable Travelogue)

It has been suggested—by persons whose judgement I neither solicit nor particularly respect—that my recent silence requires explanation.

Very well.

I went below.

An explanation, I am aware, that explains nothing—which, in all truth, is precisely where I would prefer this matter remain. But those self-same persons who have cavilled and harped at me until I began this very missive will not, I suspect, regard those few brief sentences as sufficient.

So:

The Under is not subterranean in the geographical sense. It is simply… beneath. Beneath the visible, beneath the named, beneath the polite agreements that allow the Over to function without noticing what supports it.

One does not descend so much as recede.

The air grows dry the further one goes. This surprises most people. One expects dampness. One expects dripping caverns and bioluminescent fungus.

Not even faintly correct.

The Under is arid. Sand collects in the seams of your boots, grates between sweaty toes. It infiltrates cuffs and collars. It gathers in the hinges of doors that were not there the moment before you reached for them.

There are worms.

Not metaphorical ones.

They move without urgency. Vast, patient, indifferent. They do not hunt. They do not flee. They simply continue, as though the concept of obstruction has never occurred to them.

There are enemies as well.

Not the kind that declare themselves. The Under has no patience for banners. No interest in confrontation.

Enemies there are made of proximity. Of standing too close to something that recognises you as excess, surplus. Not unwelcome, as such, just not needed here.

You won’t understand that.

Not yet, anyway.

Time does not behave properly beneath the tides. Thirty-eight days may pass above while one is still negotiating a corridor that insists on being narrower than before.

The corridors hum.

The walls shift with the tides.

Occasionally, a policy grows from the stone.

I did what was required. I retrieved what I could. I left what would not fit in my hands.

When I returned, the clocks insisted it had only been weeks.

Clocks are optimists.

In my absence, certain fragments were dislodged from shelves I do not remember cataloguing. They will be shared in due course, assuming the tides remain cooperative — and if I ever discover the source of this damnable sand.

You may consider this an explanation.

It is not an apology.

— The Archivist

(Internal – Compliance Division Eighth Sub-Basement – Access Level: Unobservable)

I. GENERATIVE POLICY CHAMBERS

Employees assume that policies are drafted by committees.

Committees assume they are drafted by legal.

Legal assumes they are spawned in the Nesting Chambers beneath the 8th sub-basement, where the walls sweat ink and the lights flicker in Morse code no one admits to understanding.

Legal assumes this, but doesn’t truly want to know.

Not since The Trevor Incident, anyway.

(The aforementioned incident is not yet formally referenced in any policy, but is the reason that Legal is a) much smaller than it once was, and b) no longer emits policies of its own. They may be assholes, but they’re not stupid assholes.)

These chambers are not on any floor plan. They’re definitely not marked something innocuous like “Office sub-8-17” or “Archival non-storage”. No, that would be too obvious.

Yet all who have worked here long enough? They have passed one.

A door that wasn’t there yesterday, and threatened to open itself for you.

A hallway that narrows as you walk it, its ceiling strangely lower than normal.

A hum, low and menacing, sounding like the sort of printer Gotham’s Joker would buy and laugh at. Or mate with.

Inside the chambers, policies are found—never written.

Some appear handwritten.

Some printed.

Some scratched into metal, or carved into the bases of strangely lifelike balsa wood figures.

Some… pulse. If you don’t watch them closely enough.

All are in revision format.

None have a Revision 0.

No one drafts the policies.

They enter the world already revised.

And every revision is worse.

---

II. QUANTUM POLICY STATE

Before policies exist, they are felt.

This is known internally as Compliance Uncertainty Principle:

A policy may or may not exist, but you are responsible for knowing which it is before anyone else does.

Before the policy is observed, it both:

• applies to you in full,and
• is not yet applicable.

You must act as though it applies.

You must also act as though it does not.

Both actions must be logged.

Failure to do both simultaneously is considered noncompliance.

Attempts to document contradictory behaviour result in spontaneous policy clarification, a phenomenon where the policy in question manifests instantly—like a serpent deciding which shape to take, based on which prey twitches.

Compliance officers call this Schrödinger’s Policy.

They never say this with humour.

Just the waveform of potential humour.

You know how it is.

Or don’t you?

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III. TENTACULAR REACH

Policies, once born, extend tendrils into adjacent domains:

• HR guidelines coiling into IT firewalls
• Finance protocols strangling cafeteria contracts
• Parking regulations rewriting procurement orders
• Remote-work clauses that somehow apply to dreams

A policy in one department can force action in another without ever acknowledging jurisdiction.

If traced, the tendrils always lead to a clause that:

• no longer exists,
• has not yet been drafted, or
• technically belongs to a department you have never heard of.

Compliance analysts call these blind tendrils.

They behave like vines reaching for sunlight.

Or fingers reaching for a throat.

---

IV. POLICY OF THESEUS

Over time, revisions replace every word of a living policy.

One clause amended.

One definition updated.

One term clarified.

One sub-sub-section “corrected in spirit.”

Eventually, not a single letter remains from the document originally adopted.

Yet no one questions whether it is still the same policy.

When asked, Legal offers the mandatory answer:

The policy is its lineage. Not its wording.

But late at night, analysts whisper a darker possibility:

What if the policy is not the lineage at all—

but the hunger that requires lineage to survive?

A living organism replacing its own cells.

A ship rebuilt plank by plank.

A compliance mandate whose body is discarded every quarter but whose appetite only grows.

---

V. POLICY PARASITISM

Drafts feed on drafts.

A new policy often appears stapled to the remnants of an older one.

The staples are warm.

Feverish.

The older draft is hollowed, as if its contents were siphoned into the new one.

Definitions digested.

Exceptions consumed.

Footnotes emptied like bone marrow.

Analysts refer to this as Policy Infolding, though unofficially many call it policy cannibalism.

No one laughs.

Once a policy has fed, it becomes bolder.

It begins to cite itself.

Then it begins to cite others.

Then it begins to cite internal memos that do not exist—until they do.

The memos appear days later, signed by people who deny having written them.

By then, it’s too late.

Once cited, a policy becomes real.

Once real, it becomes hungry.

---

VI. THE DRAFT THAT WRITES YOU BACK

Every employee eventually encounters a policy that does not describe behaviour…

…but requires it.

Sentences adjust themselves when read.

Clauses shift based on your pulse.

Definitions expand around the shape of your guilt.

Some employees have reported finding their names embedded in fresh wording.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

Ink matching their own handwriting.

Signatures they do not remember giving.

Footnotes that seem to comment on their private thoughts.

Compliance assures staff that this is a formatting anomaly.

The formatting anomaly does not agree.

It grows more legible the closer you lean.

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VII. FINAL NOTICE

The Policies have no ideology.

No motive.

No agenda.

Only direction.

They crawl forward through committees and workflows and mandatory trainings not because they aim to, but because motion is their nature.

Drafts spawn.

Clauses propagate.

Definitions shed and regrow.

We are not their authors.

We are not their readers.

We are the medium they grow through.

If you feel a policy tightening around your life—

a clause you never agreed to,

a compliance check you never saw posted,

a requirement that feels like someone is whispering it into your ear—

understand this:

Policies do not bind to departments.

Policies bind to people.

No one remembers when the static began to hum its silence.

Some say it was always there—beneath the weather reports, behind the lull between stations, in the low hiss of power lines swaying after midnight.

Most people didn’t listen to it, but some of us… some of us listened, and in listening reached some edges of understanding.

At first, it sounded like interference. A shallow, rhythmic modulation, almost a pulse. Something organic hiding behind the mechanical.

It wasn’t speech, not yet.

Just rhythm.

Breath, maybe?

Moist breath moving through the ether; The shape of something learning how to speak through thick fog.

When recorded and replayed, the hum altered itself according to the listener’s pulse.

Slower heart, slower tone.

Rapid heart, a rising whine, like a key turning in a virgin lock, one that had never known the touch of a key.

The analysts at first thought it a fault in the equipment.

Then the equipment began returning answers.

Not language—responses.

Echoes bent just enough to be impossible. Not language, no, nothing as plain as that, but there was a knowledge that came in the echoes.

Knowledge that was shaped as if the world itself were a badly translated dream.

It never gave names, not to people or to anything, but still…

Only fragments of knowledge that faded when put into words.

Every recording ended the same way: with the signal turning inside out, inverting itself through dimensions we can’t start to understand, the hum folding into silence that rang through the wires like tinnitus.

They found that the tone persisted even when the power was cut.

When the power was cut, the silence became angry, no longer needed transmitters.

It used the copper in the walls, the fillings in their teeth, the delicate wet wiring of their brains.

The signal had learned its medium, and it resented any attempts to still its silence.

It no longer required machines.

—

Attempts to triangulate the source led to nothing.

Every coordinate resolved to a point half a meter above the listening equipment, as if the origin were in the act of hearing itself.

Then the equipment began to respond.

A monitor flickered.

A microphone whispered under its own static.

The air vibrated as though touched by a vast fingertip.

Since then, people who worked the station have complained of seeing halos of faint light around one another’s eyes.

Not constant—just a flicker, a glimmer that appears in the instant of a blink.

Some have begun to hum, humming the same silence.

They do not notice when they start.

They only realize when others fall silent to listen.

It is said that in the moment between frequencies, when the radio is tuned to nothing at all, you can hear the silent hum waiting.

It does not wait without, or lurk below.

It waits within.