It was morning when I eventually woke up, still curled up on the cold stone floor of my entryway.
My wife stood beside me, looking down at me with a stern mine.
I sat up, and tried to open my mouth, but before I could say anything, she told me to go upstairs and make myself representable, as we were going to see my doctor.
Which I did.
Looking into the bathroom mirror, it struck me that the person staring back at me had changed a great deal over the last couple of weeks.
My hair was all over the place, and the more than a week-old stubble made me look different.
Like another category of person.
The kind of category that me and my wife had always agreed to not bear any resemblance to.
I quickly washed and shaved, picked out a new shirt and a clean pair of trousers from the wardrobe, and hurried out to the waiting car.
As I got in the car, I was met with silence.
After driving for a while, she said: “This can’t continue. We will have to sort you out.”
I nodded quietly, fully understanding her reaction.
Ever since we met, our relationship had depended on both of us keeping things together, making life as predictable as possible for the other.
This could only be done by nurturing a strict, mutual agreement on who we were, both as in the idea we had of ourselves, but also how we viewed each other.
If one of us strayed from the path, it would affect our coalition.
There were surely times when I struggled with this concept, but I always returned to the conclusion that it was the only way to stay sane, and eradicate any doubts surrounding our partnership.
A partnership that was fragile from the start.
Not that we didn’t fall in love when we first met.
Initially, we both enjoyed exploring the mysteries that we represented to eachother.
We were very young, and unexperienced.
But after being together for a while, it seemed that we both felt a slight unease in the relationship.
As if we were a puzzle made up of pieces from two different sets of puzzles.
Soon we were both being pulled between this sense of never being able to relax, and the convenience of having someone to be with.
Not ideal by any means, but none of us were too idealistic at heart to begin with.
We were actually in the process of re-evaluating our whole relationship, and even talked about going separate ways when we discovered that our oldest son was on his way.
And so, as our rather fragile bond was sealed by the pregnancy, all feelings of doubt had to be ignored.
Pushed back into the deep, replaced by a strict framework for our relationship as well as for our individual personalities.
All things that didn’t fit into the alliance simply had to be cut away.
Like some emotional bonzai practise.
This also required us to exclude any thoughts that threatened the characters we had agreed to stay true to.
Strange new thoughts might have developed new sides of ourselves, sides that would eventually make us strangers to each other.
In reality, that’s probably what this whole strategy ended up making us.
Confined in the same prison cell.
I caught myself thinking these new thoughts, and instantly felt guilty.
I straightened up in the passenger seat, and hoped we would arrive at my doctor’s office without too much traffic delay.
That way I would be able to avoid more of my own thoughts, as well as any unwanted conversation.
Luckily, we soon arrived and parked the car, and I thought of how I would deal with the questions I knew would be coming from my doctor.
For some reason I didn’t want to tell him any details about what had happened over the last week.
It felt as if all my new experiences were of a most private kind.
I quickly made a plan on how to keep him at an arms distance, but at the same time make sure I got a green light to stay home from work, and continue exploring the new world that had opened up to me.
I decided to blame it all on some unexplainable, general feeling of fatigue.
It felt vague enough, but also believable.
He knew that my physical health was quite good for my age, and that I exercised regularly.
He didn’t know about the cigarettes, but I only smoked when I drank alcohol, and that was limited to the occasional bottle of vintage wine.
And anyway, a sporadic intake of nicotine could hardly be blamed for the kind of behaviour I had shown over the last few weeks.
I would focus on feeling powerless, and an unusual craving for sleep.
That would fit in with the sleeping on the floor.
We entered my doctor’s office.
My wife greeted my doctor, who nodded towards me, before she started explaining what was going on, how unlike me it all was, and how it must be down to some temporary infection or something similar.
I listened, then answered the questions that followed from my doctor, all according to my plan.
My wife answered some of them, according to hers.
After the consultation and a quick check-up on my blood-pressure and pulse, my doctor concluded that there didn’t seem to be anything seriously wrong with me, and that I was probably just suffering from general fatigue, and that it could have something to do with the darkness this time of year.
He recommended I should take another week off work, boost my intake of Vitamin D, drink more water, and take one day at a time.
Silently cheering inside, I thanked him, said goodbye and left, after my wife had done the same.
We drove back home without further conversation.
She was already late for work.
After she dropped me off at the house, I went back inside, straight to my desk and opened the computer.
I did some a few more searches on Platonic Solids, and found some interesting reads on the concept of “Sacred Geometry”.
Going through a few articles, I found that the geometry concerned didn’t seem very sacred at all, but more like a rather strange way of describing relations between frequency and form.
Like the metrics of sound and space.
Something anyone with a slight knowledge of accoustics would be able to relate to.
The focus on numbers instantly appealed to me.
A language I love.
A language without ornamentation.
Stripped of unnecessary imagery and wordplay, which most of the time served to conceal any real meaning, if there ever was any to begin with.
I found the presence of these kind of ideas in metaphysical texts very peculiar, as I’ve always considered mathematics to be as far from mythology as you can get.
On the totally opposite side of the spectrum of fairy tales.
It was almost as if the tag “sacred” was applied only to repel the attention of any rational mind, who would automatically dismiss all this as nonsense.
Someone like myself.
But reading through these articles, it was surprisingly easy to look beyond the noise, and into the more essential information they contained.
This was something I had never experienced before.
One article linked the five Platonic Solids to atomic structures, challenging most traditional definitions of the building-blocks of physical matter.
A theory called “The Electric Universe” disregarded the forces of gravity altogether in favour of those of electricity and magnetism, suggesting that the entire universe was built on electric charges working along energy grids following structural laws based on simple geometry, and that all physical matter was a consequence of the behaviour of these forces and forms.
I found it all highly interesting, and the electrician in me immediately started comparing these theories to my own understanding of electricity.
After all, there was an apparent link between the structure of crystals and vibration that I could immediately relate to, in that I’d been using crystals in electronic circuits since my early schooldays.
Building simple FM-receivers and other radio equipment.
Crystals are everywhere in electronics, and is used to tune radio channels to different frequencies, and keep digital clocking in most computers.
Everyone who have any basic understanding of electronics knows that.
Most people don’t, though.
I leaned back, and thought about how I’d been so fascinated with electricity from an early age.
The age of wireless.
As I let my mind wander, I suddenly remembered the joys of playing with these forces as a child, and later as a teenager, with my music machines.
Vibrations locked in form.
I suddenly got a strong urge to re-live these memories, and before I knew it I’d gotten up from my chair and climbed the ladder into the attic.
Behind piles of boxes full of useless stuff, I worked my way into the far corner of the room, and there it was.
My old Korg MS-20 synthesizer.
Full of dust, and with one broken key, but otherwise apparently intact.
Next to it, in another box, I found my Roland TR-606 Drumatix drum machine.
It was still inside its black plastic carrying bag with leather straps on, so you could keep it around your neck while performing.
Beneath it, wrapped in an old towel, was my old 4-track Portastudio.
I grabbed a plastic bag full of cables from the same box, and carried all the gear down to the office.
Setting up was surprisingly easy, considering it had been more than three decades since the last time I did it.
With both the synth and drum machine going through the portastudio, I connected my headphones to it.
Then switched everything on.
And lost myself in sound and play.
I’m not sure how long I’d been sitting there, but it must have been hours when I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen.
Back in the chair, just as I was about to put my headphones back on, I heard someone entering the house downstairs.
I realised it was my wife locking herself in, which meant that she’d finished work, which in turn meant I’d been sitting at my desk for a full working day.
I quickly switched everything off, got up, and went downstairs to meet her.
She asked if I felt better.
I told her yes, and eagerly started talking about my discoveries since she left me this morning.
She listened with half an ear, then suggested I should maybe take things a little easy for a quicker recovery.
After all, we didn’t want this to linger on, and would rather like things to return to normal, no?
I thought maybe no.