Files and Piles and Piles of Files

It's almost 9:00 A.M. and I've been here for two and a half hours. The work never ends. I am sitting at a desk with piles of files all over it. There are more files on the chairs and there are a few piles of files on the floor. It's like I'm slowly being bricked into the room. I have to dodge these fucking things just to leave the room. I pick one up, put it on my desk, do my work and drop it on another pile. The piles have a life of their own. They grow, they shrink, the move around the room. They breath. I talk to the piles. They don't talk back. Why? Why won't they talk to me. It's just us here. All day, all night. Why won't they answer me when I ask them to go away?

Every so often I finish a file. I pick it up and bring it to another room where it gets processed. When I return to my office there are new files on the piles.

That's right, they replace themselves. They are like little Bin Ladens. Kill one and two more pop up. Or however that claim goes.

So, at 7:20 this morning, all alone in the office, I finished up a file, signed off on it, picked it up, cradling this birth in my arms, I walked it to the processing area. I gingerly placed it on the new pile I created out there. I kissed my fingers, I touched those fingers to the file. "Go, young file, go. Go to your owner, provide them with a year's worth of satisfaction and protection from the powers that be. Go"

As I entered my office, I heard them speak. It was a whisper but I heard it.

"We're growing not shrinking"

No shit. More piles. More files. Nobody was here to add to the piles but they seemed larger, they seemed more in control of the office space than when I walked out 5 minutes earlier.

A voice popped in my head. A high pitched, childish voice. It was Pee Wee Herman. No, he wasn't jacking off in a porn theater, he was Pee Wee, not Paul. He was the beloved man child who's bike was stolen. He was the happy go lucky man child who was slowly driven mad over his obsessive need to locate his beloved bike.

He was saying "The mind plays tricks on you. You play tricks back! It's like you're unraveling a big cable-knit sweater that someone keeps knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting... "

This is me. My mind is fucking with me. I try fucking with it but, alas, I'm no match for my own mind. So, here I sit, unravelling the sweater and some outside, unforseen force is knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and knitting and.............