Just a Theory

The conversation wobbled out of control and it occurred to me that everyone was talking at once. Two or three themes, tangents galore and a dozens of important points all charging up the field to meet the enemy; the opposing opinion. I have my own bright ideas and feel the need to drop one-liners of wisdom into the mix but, every now and then, I like to sit back and take in the swell of voices and to pick out, randomly, a line or two for juxtaposition. I like to listen to the cadence and rhythm, punctuated with laughter and short bursts of animation or to listen for the links that bridge one topic with the next, often spanning logic chasms too wide for serious examination. One thing becomes clear, however, and that is that we like to live our lives in theory.

I don't want to live my life in theory. If I can strip away all the plans that run in circles in my head, if I can forget, for a minute, the design I have laid out before me, resist the temptation to dream about the past and hope for the future, what do I have? I have this desk, this computer, the cat running in circles after his own tail, the sun beginning to drive the grayness from the room and the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the air. That's it. No worry for the things that haven't happened, no desire beyond the regulatory hum of my body and nothing to feed the daydreams I lose so much of my time to.

For a minute, maybe less, I can revel in the sensation of peace as my anxiety about work leaves me alone, as the worry about the state of my relationships eases, as I loosen the stranglehold of societal expectations and let fall away concerns about my credit rating. I often talk about perspective but this is a state where perspective is useless; there's nothing to perceive, at least nothing beyond what my five senses tell me about this minute, right now. And therein lies the problem.

The addition and subtraction that goes on, as a matter of routine, to the theories about how to live a life lead to perceptions about the future and the past. We extrapolate what fits and blow on it. The embers catch and we see ourselves, illuminated, somewhere in the future, without any clear idea of how we got there. Do I look content? It's hard to tell because the light is bad, the picture is hazy and then finally I realize it's just a wish that has nothing to do with this desk, the cat or the smell of freshly brewed coffee. It's an idea mixed with intent and dreams. I won't know until I get there, and by then this day will be an obscure moment lost in a string of dimly lit reflections in which I won't recognize myself.

I don't know; it's just a theory.