Born, loved, and waited upon, your mind is like a sponge,
Little freedom, less control, you’ve yet to take the plunge.
Your identity, your very self, still forming like a star,
And at this fragile point in life, its yet to matter who you are.
No anxiety, nor depression, your concerns are primal and true,
Food, water, shelter, family – provided without much ado.
And then what?
“Mate, where the hell ‘ave you been?”, asked one hypothetical reader; a handsome man, of considerable intelligence, great wealth, and a superb taste in online literature.
And you may be wondering yourself – “No posts in over a month? What the hell’s up with this guy? What’s he been doing that’s more important than writing to us?” – And as a valued reader, I owe you an explanation.
You see, I’ve been tunnelling through the pits of drudgery; shovelling through the muds of repetition. I have been writing; stitching together amusing responses to questions that just scream boring. I’ve been enduring an exhausting process, one both taxing and tough, and if I’m lucky, it’s only just started, for the definition of success for this venture implies that there will be a horizon of deadlines vying for my time.
So what exactly have I been doing? I’ve been applying for graduate programs.
“Be strong to be useful”
— Georges Hébert
Monday the 30th of November 2015 – a date marking more than just the edge of a month; a symbol, a flag, t’was the last time I set foot in a gym.
By the end of that week I opened my heavy eyes as I awoke from surgery. With a six-week recovery period of “no cycling, and no heavy lifting”, I was like an explorer travelling an unmapped land.
It begged the question – how was I going to keep fit?
But then, two things occurred, revolutionising my perspective on physical fitness:
- I started going on long walks, and found peace and tranquillity in the realms of nature. Fresh air, sunlight and the sweet melodies of birds; an environment far more appealing that the stuffy atmosphere, fluorescent lights, and obnoxious pop music that plague the gym.
- My Dad gave me the book ‘Natural Born Heroes’ by Christopher McDougall. It caused the revelation that a specialisation in weightlifting was at best a waste of time, and at worst was creating a false confidence in my abilities while simultaneously undermining my readiness for emergencies and the challenges that I face in everyday life. I previously thought that weightlifting was the optimal form of fitness. My previous beliefs were wrong.
And so on the 16th February 2016, over two-and-a-half months since setting foot in the gym, I returned one last time. I returned to terminate my contract.
Note: This post follows on from Part 1. As with before, it is heavily adapted from my personal journals and will be poetically infused with a more colourful grade of language – swearing.
DING DING DING DING DING!
“Aargh… what the fuck?!”
I hate alarms, avoiding them whenever humanly possible. In the ideal world they’d remain a work of fiction, but today was an early start, and I didn’t want to be the one to hold up the bus. And so I betrayed my conviction and set an alarm for 6:30am.
Now you could imagine my surprise when my roommate’s phone starts howling like a demon at 6:00am, instead of the agreed upon tie of 6:30am!
“He must have made a mistake” I thought to myself, drifting off back to the land of dream.
DING DING DING DING DING!
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
Warning: This post was heavily adapted from my own personal journal entries; it will have a lot of swearing. If this bothers you, tough luck.
Also, this post turned out to be huge, and has been split into two parts.
I’m not a man who sets an alarm; the natural method is to rise with the Sun, not to be dragged into consciousness by the shrieking howl of the phone. But today was an anomaly, an outlier as the statisticians put it – for today was the day of my flight.
After my weekly treat of a Sunday morning coffee*, and a bowl overflowing with the spicy aromas of turmeric-cinnamon infused yogurt, I ventured off to face Malaysia. If only it could have been so easy.
Instead, I faced track-work. Sydney is notorious for disrupting trains on the rare occasions that I’m actually relying on them. But having given myself such a large margin of error, this was but a drop in the pond in the voyage towards adventure.
Airport customs gave me no trouble – it’s amazing how automated it all is these days. I walked to the terminal and then I waited.
Delay – “fuck!”