By Srikha Chaganti

By the end of the hour, I’m not sure if there is truly something special about that chair, or really any chair I’ve sat in thus far, but they have each taught me how to think.

As I walk on the extreme downhill that is the path to the math building from my apartment, excitement begins to seep into my veins. It is Wednesday, and I’m meeting with my thesis advisor. The tenth floor, where her office sits, is exponentially quieter than the lower parts of the building. There aren’t many people here, but the hallway is lined with open office doors, each projecting quiet murmurs that graze my ears as I walk past. At around 11:02 a.m., I watch a PhD student with glowing eyes, a stack of paper, and a coffee cup walk out of her door.

I take his seat and it feels like there's something special about that chair. The cracking faux leather ignites something within me that I have been chasing all week. Her office is cluttered and rainbow, but it's impossible to get distracted. It’s because it doesn’t matter what lies around us — I know I’m going to have fun regardless. We tug and scratch at the loose pile of copy paper on the discussion table, feeling animalistic but calm. Like every other awry door on the floor, we too become filled to the brim with thought, overspilling just barely into the hallway. 

My thesis is on knot theory, a subject that studies circles tangled in ways that are often impossible in our three dimensions. I think about the different papers I read that week, each written as a result of a thought experiment similar to our current one. My questions and explanations slide down from my brain and begin to spill off my tongue. She replies, pulling her answers from pure reasoning. We’re working only with what we know and understand, and it's exhilarating.

At times, it feels like I’m stuck. She draws a whirlwind representation of something incomprehensible and probes my understanding. I tap my foot on the tile faster, and honestly, I wish I could ask for the answer. But there isn’t anywhere to look. The questions are still open, and the hypotheticals we’ve proposed are abstract in their entirety. This does feel like the beauty of it all, though; there is nobody waiting for the answer. Our subject is immortal, because it lives on soundly in our minds. I smile at the thought.

The time passes quickly. My backpack is untouched, and her tea, as always, is full and now cold. By the end of the hour, I’m not sure if there is truly something special about that chair, or really any chair I’ve sat in thus far, but they have each taught me how to think. I don’t feel ready to leave.

—

After the meeting is over, I walk out of the building, bracing myself for what the weather will bring. It is finally my turn to cross the street and I pedal up the now-uphill path, reminiscing. That conversation is a regular game we play, and the Hagoromo chalk dust on my fingers stays as a reminder. Each thing we make sense of, each point we score, feels strong.

I want to tell my girlfriend about the math I learned. I know not much will come across apart from my eagerness. But I also know, she’ll still listen. Unable to resist the urge, I still text her at the next red light, knowing it's more or less useless to her. “meeting was so awesome today.” I so desperately want to share. But I know that in these sessions, the problems we work on offer no immediate practicality to anyone but ourselves. In fact, they reside in a universe created by the subject itself. Still, they strike a satisfaction that only something entirely crafted by human ingenuity can reach.

I leave the bike and walk with a certainty to my steps. There is a dominance that reaches to the balls of your feet and your fingertips when you realize you’ve done something yourself. Regardless of how difficult it was or how long it took, it's untouchable. No matter how far someone else stretches, muscles contorting and spine cracking, they can’t pull it away.

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I reach my apartment and kick my shoes off. My clothes form a pile on the bathroom floor.

I’m taking a shower and I turn the knob as far left as it will go. It is unnecessarily hot, and definitely bad for my skin. My Wednesdays are always swimming in motivation, post noon. The water turns to steam as soon as it hits my back, but the morning has given me so much to think about, I don’t realize. More important than the mathematics that were discussed is the sudden increase in consciousness I seem to gain each week. Like a regularly recorded mile time, I can evaluate my mental performance. I know so much more, but I’m stupider than I was last year. At least it feels that way. Not in a self-depracating way, but staring at the water running down my legs, I realize how much I don’t know. I don’t know quantum physics or capital markets, but I also don’t know everything I want out of my life. It doesn’t upset me. I wash the lavender chamomile shower gel off with a sense of satisfaction and turn the water off for the sake of the environment.

As I step out of the shower, my reflection is no longer visible in the mirror. I step over the pile of clothes I left on the ground. My forearm wipes away the fog hiding my face. I stare into my own eyes. Sometimes, it feels like my increasing awareness of my unintelligence should hinder the extent to which I dream. This time, instead of the faux leather black chair, I sit on the edge of my bed. I still think of all the chances I want, and people I long for, and places I dream of. And I realize I still have control, in the same way I have control over my intangible math problems from this morning.

I’ve heard that some drugs make people feel like the king of the world. The feeling I get when I remember this is only second to that, probably. I feel like the king of my life. Maybe not a good king, maybe a struggling king, but a king that can’t be overthrown. A confident monarch, who knows everything is up to him. Still on the edge of my bed, I kick my feet, willing the hair stuck to my neck to dry faster.

Wrapped in my extra large towel, I think about what I need to finish today. I’m meant to go home this weekend. Only for a few days, but that means three days of work needs to be done today. Nothing gets done at home.

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At home (home-home this weekend, with my parents), there are lots of different chairs. Downstairs, there are the six wooden chairs lining the dining table and the white fabric couch. There are all the different desk chairs, some with wheels. Upstairs, there are the movie room recliners, and finally, the orange suede rocking chairs with no legs. With so many places to sit and think, you would think I would get more of that done there. Instead, they spark uncertainty and doubt.  Sure, they aren’t that black leather chair, surrounded by chalkboards and motivation. But they are chairs, regardless. If I feel like myself in the shower, on the edge of my bed, in random campus chairs, what could possibly be different about home?

It wasn’t until this trip home that I began to realize why — I’ve spent the few days essentially unconscious. I am out of practice. I feel like an athlete on the decline. I feel like a corrupt king controlled by puppeteers. Rocking back and forth on the legless chairs, I force myself to do something self-made. I look at the title of a paper I’ve been meaning to read for the last week, and I can’t make sense of it for the third time. “On Conway mutation and link homology.” After a five day break consisting of turning my mind off, it suddenly feels like sprinting up that uphill. I try to journal, but I haven’t noticed anything new about myself. I really want to stop, or I want it to feel powerful again; I’m longing for the faux leather chair from my advisor’s office again.

With any agency I had seemingly gone, I feel frustrated how easily it slipped from my grasp. I realize what each of the places I’ve sat offered me, and the importance of exercising and creating with my mind. With the ruin of everything else, I could still go back to myself. I pick up my pen and will it to come back. ■