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Fpa 1

Hits 3356 | Created 2007-06-13 | Modified 2007-06-13


Such is life,
Falling down seven times,
And getting up eight.

It may be a cliché, but your reality is what you make it. Like the Invisible Man in Lancaster - he may not actually be invisible, but because he spends all his time dancing around in front of people, telling them that he is, the natural consequence is that they completely ignore him, just as if he really was.
This was the summer of my madness, and my reality was not a good one. I had become hopelessly, and rather unhealthily, cynical about life.
I used to be a hippie, and when I was, I used to hate people who told me that they used to be hippies. I couldn't quite understand how they could transform into the cynical, bitter people that they seemed to be now. I generally suspected them of lying to me.
Now that I was cynical and bitter myself, the transformation was still a mystery to me.
I would throw myself down onto my carpet in helplessness.
I would try to focus on my pile, but it was a blur - too close for detail. I listened to my fibres, but they told me nothing at all. I didn't expect any help from my carpet of course, but it was all I felt I could do.

Lying on the floor of my flat I was aware of the image I would make to an unexpected visitor, or a man peeping through my window - I could be dead, I could be drunk, perhaps. As I thought, I returned my mental direction to my eyes and the images they were sending me of my carpet. My eyes were now unfocused and very close. Without changing my focus, I concentrated on the image details. The edges of the fibres of the carpet were spectacular worlds of fractal chaos and rainbow colours, incredibly intricate and beautiful. I marvelled at this never before seen world and as I became really interested and tried to get a better look, my brain took over and tried to focus on the world before me. Instantly it morphed and retreated and became again simply close up blurs of carpet fibre - dull, mundane, very much of this world. I changed my focus slowly backwards and forwards between the two worlds for a while, wondering. This seemed to sum up something I had been thinking about, something dancing around at the back of my mind, but I couldn't clarify the thought. I got up and regarded the carpet from my feet, a million miles away.

It was time for a change, I thought, from my bed. I moved over to my table and took a sheet of paper and a pen and began to write columns of figures and perform tedious long divisions. After I had left school I forgot all about mathematics until I reached a point in my life where I actually needed to do some long division. Surprised, I had to teach myself the process all over again, and now actually quite enjoyed doing it. As an aside, a friend of mine once solved a newspaper logic problem in front of me (of the kind if Susan is twice as old as David who is half the age of Anne, how old is Peter?) using algebra, therefore debunking my theory that it was good for absolutely nothing outside of the classroom.

After half an hour of staring out of the window and a full page of calculations and minute scribbles, I concluded that I could survive, conservatively, for about ten months on my savings if I left work in four weeks and moved to a cheaper country entirely.

I went to the pub to celebrate and drank five pints of Guinness. The next day, I handed in my notice at work and told my landlord I was leaving.

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