We were making folders: paper, colour divider, plastic, colour divider, time sheets, colour divider, yellow book, colour divider, sheets of paper to explain the sheets of people before. This was our path around the oval table, mapped out with a rigidity of colour dividers and place position that few would struggle to decipher the true meaning of. Our footsteps were endless, our hand movements automatic, and around us, as the day wore on, and the sun dipped a harsh heated light into the room, red folders piled up: pressed against the wall, across the floor, and in boxes, they were a cocoon of plastic and paper and dividers from which we would eventually emerge as model employees, if such a thing exists.
The conversation mirrored our march: a circular narrative track built on the back of relationships, the way life is structured, and the psychoanalytical critique of the over educated. In the end, we settled on nothing, learnt no truth outside the way to assemble folders.
At the end, the world dark and empty, I was given one hundred dollars, and allowed out of the room. Stepping onto the bus, I began the second half of my days circular journey, and returned home.