Möbius Strip

Since the wheels that open gmail are still spinning as industriously as a static bike, it weaves a philosophical spell around me, offering the startling observation that I can draw comparisons with mathematics and my life, always a matter of deep concern. Hmmmm. So now my life has that curious mathematical property of being non-orientable. Ouroboros. One, All. Or in laymanspeak, convoluted and endless. It isn't the martini bianco or the unreliable light on the dongle or the desire to drench myself under a hot shower to take away the chill of the room, or the cloud of smoke hanging in the kitchen, mute testament to an utterly sumptuous, soy/ginger steak, wasabi mashed potatoes and green beans. It was a thought. A thought that took on a life of it's own, just like ole Möbius, making up in imagination what it utterly lacks in orientation.

This morning, my refusal to crawl out from under the snugness of the duvet had my imagination skirt a vociferous Khalsa gathering only to walk through a barren landscape, intermittently dotted with brush and curious deer, one of which scurries up to me with a pitiful wail (deers don’t wail do they?), calming only when I scratch behind her ears, murmuring insensate Robindro Shongeet. Tumbleweed lolls beside me as I head towards the fort that looms ahead of me, the sudden vibration from the blackberry wrenching me back to the promise of sunshine on a cold day. It's hardly surprising I feel the confused unidimensionality of maths and wish my life would reflect the same instead of the actuely physical, deeply emotional and totally illogical.