She stared at the in-trays piled with paperwork that needed to be filed, fourteen in-trays. It was not the work itself that bothered her, it was the type of work, the meaning behind the act. She considered filing to be the lowest form of work, for her. Anybody can file she thought. Anybody can shuffle pieces of paper together, punch a hole in them and put them in a file. Is this where all her hard work in previous positions had got her? Is this the only worthwhile skill she had managed to maintain in her thirteen years of employment? Is this what her future was? The brief moments in her life when she thought she was somebody flashed through her mind quicker than she would have liked. Nonetheless deep down, maybe not deep enough, rang true the words she had always felt;
I am not somebody. I am just anybody.