Rubik's Cube

---

Earlier this year, I won a Rubik’s cube. At some random carnival game, where I didn’t even know it was a prize. It was a white Rubik’s cube, with brighter colours. It grated a little, when you twisted it. 

And I had never had a Rubik’s cube before. Never thought to pick one up. But here it was, presented to me. And here it was, in my hands. And here I was, figuring it out. 

There are two ways to figure out a Rubik’s cube. The first one, is to figure it out. The second one, is to follow the formula. 

I spent almost every waking minute for two weeks on the puzzle. A friend had told me to construct it by layers. And I did. I did the first layer. Then I did the second layer. I lived and breathed the Rubik’s cube. I saw it when I closed my eyes. I saw it in my dreams. I saw it in the way I usually look at people’s expressions, piecing together their emotions. 

My hands spun it, around and around and around. 

And by the end of the first week, I understood the first layer, I understood the second. But I obsessed over it, fully obsessed for another week. And I could not crack the third layer. Yet I was too stubborn to follow the formula. 

And someday, as the second week was drawing to a close, I was tired. I no longer wanted to see the scratched little squares of colour. The clicks of the twists grated jarringly in my head. The plastic felt worn and oily. 

As the third week approached, I put it down. 

And I never picked it up again. 

I had spent so long trying to figure it out. I had tried, over and over and over. The hours, the effort, the concentration. My two-week hyperfixation. And I’m looking at it now, abandoned on the windowsill. There’s a fine layer of dust on it, on the final layer I could never crack. 

But I’ve always been like this. 

When I have a pressing, overbearing fixation, it becomes the only thing I can think of. Everything else becomes secondary to this one, insane, mania. I think myself to death over it. I relinquish control of my life for it. I sacrifice my time, energy, effort for it. 

I try and try and try and try. 

Until one day, I crack it. Either I crack the problem, or I crack my limits. And then it goes onto the windowsill, with everything else I’ve been fanatic over. It becomes another ornament, collecting dust. Forgotten, under the sleepy afternoon sun.

Sometimes it’s strange to think that something which fully defined brief periods of my life can just as quickly be removed, completely forgotten. A passing whim which has released its clutches on my brain. 

It’s also very rare for me to try again, after the first time. But I’m now sitting here, looking at the windowsill. The colours seem to have faded with the passing of time. I wonder if it’s warm from the sun. I wonder if the gears will sound the same. I wonder if the plastic will feel the same. I wonder if this time, if I give it the proper consideration. If I give it the proper patience. If I strip away my frustrated insistency. 

All my life, I’ve struggled with patience. I’ve struggled with patience and forgiveness and softness. And it is largely because I was never shown these things as a child, never grew up with the concept of these things. If I tried once and failed then I was a failure and shouldn’t try again. 

But I’ve since realised that’s not quite true. I’ve tried at many things now. Tried, and failed, at many many things. My career, my friendships, myself. Tried, and failed. And tried again. And as long as I’ve tried one more time than I’ve failed, it’s all worked out. My career, my friendships, myself.

And I imagine holding it in my palm. I imagine wiping off the dust. I imagine turning the gears again. I imagine approaching it with consideration, with consistency. Approaching it slowly, approaching it deliberately. 

Perhaps the Rubik’s cube isn’t a Rubik’s cube at all. Perhaps, on the windowsill, it’s a memory. A memory of what could’ve been. A memory of what can still be. If I give it the due patience. The due gentleness. The due care. 

I think maybe, just maybe, I’ll try again.