I've spent my life studying one question: how to design a system where no one can block anyone else.

There's a technical term for this: decentralization. It means information can travel from A to B without needing C's permission. No one is a mandatory checkpoint. No one gets to say "nothing moves until I nod."

Then I made a decision. I decided to do fieldwork—to observe firsthand how a system that has perfected the art of blocking actually operates.

I went to an institution. What kind doesn't matter. You only need to know that there, every person is a node. Every node can block the people behind them. The entire system is a vast web, with someone sitting at every intersection, waiting for others to come beg them for passage.

This is a miracle of human civilization.

My research is about eliminating these nodes. And I voluntarily walked into a place made entirely of nodes.

You see, God has a sense of humor.

On the first day, I witnessed the system's precision.

Onboarding required filling out forms. Forty-seven pages. Once complete, submit to HR. HR said this needs the office's stamp first. I went to the office. The office said before stamping, finance needs to confirm. I went to finance. Finance said before confirming, they need the form from HR.

I said the form is at HR.

Finance said then go get it from HR.

I went to HR. HR said once submitted, forms can't be retrieved. To retrieve it, you need approval from the office.

I went to the office. The office said this isn't something we can approve, you need to find a leader.

I asked which leader.

The office said go back and wait for notification.

I waited three days. No notification. I asked again. The office said, did you submit your forms? I said yes. She said, then wait, you'll be notified when the process is complete.

How did I finally get onboarded? I have no idea. On the fourth morning, someone called telling me to pick up my badge. I picked it up. No one explained what happened in between.

The defining feature of this system is: it will block you, but it won't tell you it's blocking you. You're just waiting. Waiting for someone you don't know to make some decision you don't know about, and then your status changes from "blocked" to "approved."

As for why?

There is no why.

Here, the most important technology is burning CDs.

This system transmits information by: burning files onto a disc, walking to another building, handing it to another person, who then loads the disc's contents into their computer.

When I first heard this, I thought it was a joke.

I said, why not use network transfer?

Old Zhou, my mentor, said: not secure.

I said, you can encrypt.

Old Zhou said, who's going to manage the encryption?

I said, you could build a system—automatic encryption, automatic transfer.

Old Zhou looked at me.

His eyes held a kind of compassion. Like an adult watching a child say "when I grow up I want to be Ultraman."

He said, Xiao Wu, do you know who has to approve that system?

I said, who?

He said, first the section has to agree, then the division has to agree, then the supervising leader has to agree, then the technical department has to evaluate, then the security department has to review, then it goes back to the supervising leader for approval, then through procurement.

I said, how long would that take?

He said, my first year here I applied to replace a printer. It was approved in my third year.

I said, so we just keep burning discs?

He said, yes.

Later I discovered that the most important discs in this system aren't in the archives.

Some discs can move. Some discs can talk. Some discs sit on the twelfth floor, waiting for others to come get their signature.

The disc on the twelfth floor told me to write a report. About whether stablecoins pose risks.

I wrote for two weeks. The conclusion: yes, there are risks.

The report went up. Three days later, the disc summoned me to its office.

It threw the report on the desk. It said, rewrite.

I asked, what's wrong with it?

It said, the conclusion is wrong.

I said, the data shows—

It said, I don't care about data. I'm telling you, this thing has no risks. Rewrite.

I looked at it. It leaned back in its chair, fingers interlaced over its belly, round and shiny.

I said, okay.

I went back and changed the conclusion.

Then it made me change it again. Then again. Then again.

By the seventh revision, I noticed a pattern: each round of feedback was different. What the previous round told me to add, the next round told me to delete. What one round told me to delete, the following round told me to add back.

This wasn't about revising the report. This was the disc confirming it could still spin.

The report itself didn't matter. What mattered was that you had to revise. The number of revisions represented the disc's RPM. The more you revised, the faster it was spinning. Twenty revisions meant it was a high-speed disc.

As for what the report ultimately said?

No one cared.

Reports eventually go to the archives, lying in basement level two. I went to look later, asked the archivist how many people came to retrieve files in a year. She said once last year. I asked if they got it. She said the disc was corrupted, couldn't be read.

Thousands of reports, each one someone spent weeks writing, revised many times. In the end they lie in a basement, waiting to degrade.

But the revision process is important.

That process proves: the disc is still spinning.

This system's purpose isn't to complete work. Isn't to produce good reports. Isn't to make correct judgments.

This system's purpose is to keep the discs spinning.

Every disc must spin. This is the source of their sense of existence.

Think about it. You're a disc, lying there every day, meaningless. Reports get written and go to archives, no one reads them. Meetings conclude and nothing changes. You could be eliminated and it wouldn't matter.

But you can spin. And you can block.

Someone needs something done, needs to pass through you. You can block them once—"materials incomplete." Block them again—"wrong format." Block them again—"wait a bit longer."

In that moment, you're a useful disc.

The entire system runs this way. Every disc spinning, driving other discs to spin. Everyone spinning each other around, forming a kind of equilibrium.

No one can actually accomplish anything. But every disc feels important.

One day there was a meeting.

Someone at the meeting presented my report, said the research was well done, conclusion: risks are controllable.

Then the disc started spinning.

It said some young colleagues have attitude problems. Revised many times and still can't get it right. Bookworms. Eyes above their station.

It was talking about me.

Twenty-some people sitting in the conference room. No one looked at me. Every disc was studying the table surface, as if there were important data engraved on it.

I sat there, listening.

I thought: it's spinning.

It needed to spin in front of all the discs. To prove it could still spin. To prove it spun faster than the other discs.

This is a ritual. Like animals urinating to mark territory. It was telling all the discs: I'm the fastest-spinning disc here.

After the meeting, Old Zhou said, don't take it to heart.

I said, I won't.

I was just doing fieldwork. Observing disc ecology.

In March, I wrote a paper. Using my own research, my own data. Per regulations, publication required the disc's signature.

I brought it to be signed. The disc flipped through it and said, why does the main text have eight sections?

I said, papers don't have rules about how many sections.

It said, then why eight?

I said, because there are eight parts.

It said, no. Wrong format.

I said, what format?

It stopped talking. It put the paper down and continued lying there.

I stood there, holding my paper.

This was the ultimate disc.

Not "fix this, change that." Not "try harder and it'll spin."

It said it won't spin, so it won't spin. No reason. No way out.

I looked down at that paper.

Then I thought: why am I waiting for a disc to spin?

I study decentralization. I know that any system containing a disc that can block everyone is a fragile system.

The solution is simple.

If the east won't spin, the west will. If this lord won't spin for me, I'll find a lord who will.

That was that.

Later people asked me, when did you decide to leave?

I said I don't know.

Really don't know. There was no moment. No night lying in bed, tossing and turning, figuring out life. No dramatic awakening.

One day I noticed I was browsing job sites. One day I noticed I was cleaning out my drawers. One day I noticed I was filling out resignation forms.

Just like that.

Like watching a movie and realizing you're already standing at the exit. Not that the movie was bad—just watched enough. I could predict the rest of the plot. Discs will still be discs. Boring.

Resigning also requires a process.

Forms to fill. Stamps to get. HR, finance, office, archives—every place needs a visit. Every place has a disc sitting there, waiting to spin once.

Missing the section's stamp. Missing the leader's signature. Missing the third copy of some form.

Before, I would have been anxious. Not anymore.

Can't finish today? Come back tomorrow. Can't finish tomorrow? Come back the day after. That disc isn't in? Wait. That stamp hasn't been made yet? Wait.

I'm not in a hurry.

I'm leaving anyway. One day earlier, one day later—what's the difference?

Actually, they're the ones in a hurry. The position occupied, the desk occupied. Every extra day I stay is one more person on their reports.

So you see, this is interesting.

I became someone who blocks others.

My mom asked why I wanted to leave.

I said it's boring.

She said what do you mean boring.

I said it's just boring.

She said what do you actually want.

I said I want to do something interesting.

She said what's interesting.

I said I don't know. But definitely not burning discs.

She didn't understand. She thought I'd lost my mind. Iron rice bowl, stability, so many people trying to get in.

She was right about everything. From her perspective, I was being foolish.

But I couldn't explain it to her. I couldn't tell her that every day I sat there, watching discs block each other, then pretending to spin myself, then everyone burning the results onto discs together, putting them in a basement, waiting to degrade.

This isn't work. This is performance art.

I participated for almost a year. Enough.

On my last day, I went to the archives.

Asked the archivist for a blank disc.

She asked what I was burning.

I said nothing.

She said then what do you want it for.

I said it's pretty.

She didn't ask again.

I put the disc in my bag. Walked to the door, looked back at those cabinets. Thousands of discs, decades of reports, lying in the basement, waiting to degrade.

Goodbye.

On the way out, security checked my bag.

Saw the blank disc, asked what it was.

I said a souvenir.

He said what kind of souvenir.

I said just a souvenir. To remember I was here.

He didn't understand. Waved me through.

Outside, the sun was bright.

I stood at the entrance, looking at that building. Gray, square, many windows. Behind the windows sat many discs, each one spinning, driving other discs to spin.

I was in there for almost a year.

Now the show's over. Audience exiting.

Sometimes I think about that place and laugh.

I actually stayed there for a year. I actually earnestly revised a report twenty times. I actually learned to burn discs. I actually thought those things were important.

I also think about that disc. The one sitting on the twelfth floor. The one that said my paper couldn't have eight sections.

It's probably still there. Still spinning. Still counting how many sections other people's papers have. Still feeling important.

Pretty funny, actually.

Before I left, I went back to my hometown.

Behind my grandmother's house there's a park. In the park there's a pond. When I was little it was alive, had fish. Later the inlet got blocked, became stagnant.

I went to look. Still stinks.

By the pond there's a ditch leading to the river outside, clogged with trash.

I squatted down and cleared it.

Took all afternoon. The ditch opened up, a little water flowed through.

An old man asked, is that useful?

I said no. It'll be clogged again tomorrow.

He said then why clear it?

I said nothing else to do.

He left.

I stood there watching for a while. The water was flowing. Very thin, very slow, but flowing.

Then I left too.

To find a place with living water.