In Theory

By : Julija Norvidaite

June 22, 2007 – I have a rather nasty habit of theorizing about everything. I look for links and connections in the most mundane of situations. On good-hair day I would contemplate writing a thesis on connectedness between lyric heroes in odd stances of metaphysical poetry. I believe there is a direct link between cumin seeds in the bottom of my cup and a job interview I have booked for Monday. I am gradually getting used to the idea that I am most likely doing it to get some kind of control over the unknown and the unexplainable which is everywhere.

I have tried the obvious and the shocking. I have done a course in theology and religions of the world and yes, I have read the Bible, I have done the rosary and all that comes with it (most of which I recon all of humanity combined is too young to digest). I have explored substance abuse and toyed with self-harm. I have read about every imaginable form of art under a flashlight glow. I have read books I will never understand. I have memorized lines that mean nothing to me and mean a world to the one who is in the know. I am seriously considering joining the convent.

Today I am officially on a quest to understand why certain individuals look into things too much while others are satisfied focusing their attention on the table of contents for a prolonged period of time. Life must be so lovely when all one worries about is which way the wind will blow tomorrow.

I am a chronic worrier you see. My doctor refuses to believe a healthy looking young successful girl like me would have any problems whatsoever. I threat with suicide and he tells me to go for a walk. I bet my right lung he thinks the only intellectual activity I indulge in is adding the price of an eye shadow to the price of my new lippie.

Rounding it up to have a double zero at the end - that type of mathematics. The truth is though that I am a prodigy when it comes to disguise. For as long as I remember myself I was mastering the art of lying. Not evil-malicious type of lying, no. Simply the art of chameleon-ism as I like to call it: a little something for everyone but never really all of me. Before it all gets too much and I start worrying about worrying about that part of me which is worrying about not worrying. Who can blame poor little rich Mr. Doctor for not seeing beyond the embroidery?

In theory, I have all the ingredients to be happy, successful and rich. In practise I’m prescribed weird looking pills to stay happy. I have to prove I have excellent command of English in language exams. And I will probably never be rich. Hey, what a marvellous hypothesis!