Lost and Confused

I remember the book of mazes: a gift my parents handed me when I was seven. It was too thick, too heavy to hold with one hand, but being hugged it fit just fine. Opening it to a random page all but guaranteed a brand-new maze.

I would try to solve a few mazes each day – four, maybe five. Mama would be preparing the dinner table for when father got home.

Before attempting a maze, I’d first establish whether I could reach the end, perfectly, lest the pristineness of the book be tainted by my mistakes. Surely it wouldn’t be acceptable to blunt my pencil, then sharpen it down to nothing, just for the luxury of multiple attempts.

If the path through a maze was immediately obvious, I’d follow it right then and there. If it was not, then I’d slam the book shut, take a deep breath, wait for the echoes to cease, and try my luck again.

Worst of all were mazes that looked easy, but turned out to be just out of reach. When the path reaches a dead end, and the back of the pencil would rather burn a hole in the book before it erased the twisted path, I’d feel a lump in my throat.

When that happened, tears would blur my vision, my hand would start shaking, and scribbles would mix with tears as I punished the book – as I let it all out on the source of my frustration. When that failed to satisfy, I’d rip the page out and turn it into a bookmark. That ought to be useful, and mark where the good mazes that I solved were – the easy ones.

Before continuing, washing my face would help return my vision. The book compelled me – no, taunted me – to open it up again. Sometimes, a path opened when I came back. Was I unable to see it before? No, I definitely would have seen that. The lines of the maze must have shown me illusions.

I remember the day I swallowed my pride. Ten at the time, with shifting mazes still causing me pain, I asked mama to help me with one specifically. It was shaped like an hourglass. It was simply too intriguing to leave unsolved. Plus, there’d be no way I’d land on that unmarked page again.

She saw my incomplete attempt, neat as it was, and offered to show me a secret. She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with her own leather-bound book. Mazes with many colourful paths filled her book. None of her paths were erased. She simply picked up a new pen and tried again.

She’d tear out the pages that interested me and let me borrow them. Not as bookmarks, but as inspiration. I wished I could be like her.

She showed me father’s book too. Untouched mazes, and mazes with angled paths, were everywhere. His book did not have as many pages as mama’s book. Not even as many as mine. But it was perfect, as far as my eyes would deceive me.

Only one thing mattered, though: start from the end, and you’ll solve it every time. I didn’t get it back then, nor did I notice that mama hadn’t followed her own advice, and nor did father. Why it worked didn’t matter, all that mattered was how many mazes could be done over the next few days.

Pen in hand, I solved the now-trivial mazes. Only one pen was necessary. No mistakes would be made. Perfection was within arm’s reach.

I remember it was only a week later when my perfect lines, centred within the maze walls, flowing through its winding corridors like a river, turned into classic chicken scratch. The mazes were getting bigger, but I needed to finish the usual number. Four or five a day were to be completed, at any cost.

Old habits resurfaced. Frustration would lead to bookmarks made of failure. Keeping up the pace was no longer possible. No secret advice could help me then.

Eventually, one maze would take more than a day to finish. Coming back the next day and checking the bookmark, I’d notice the walls of the maze have shifted. The path I’ve drawn now crossed the walls and avoided open corridors. There were no tears in my eyes now. Could clear sight mislead me like that?

Maybe it was the late nights – trying desperately to solve the maze before bedtime, so it doesn’t shift when no one’s watching, but my pen started getting stuck and leaving blotches of ink that would block the paths of the maze. Perhaps the fog had lifted from my eyes, but seeped into my brain.

I remember, but it’s been a while since I stopped. My forty-seventh birthday is coming up soon. Less than a week is left now. Why did I stop? Because the secret no longer worked. I couldn’t cheat any more, so it didn’t matter. The book had accepted my ink. The book had accepted my challenge.

Today, this will all change. I won’t be rushing to finish the book. I’ll sit at the dinner table, all alone now. While the slow cooker makes my meal – not as good as mama used to make, not as proper as dad used to like it – I’ll be taking a look at where I left the mazes last.

The last bookmark was the hourglass. Perhaps my past self has deemed the secret a failure. I’m not here to judge though, only to look, only to see what was missed.

The marked maze had many ends. The marked maze was incomplete. I’d never started it. It had no start. It waited for me to start – to put my pen down and strike a path.

They’re not here now, but I’m certain my parents would be amazed. This maze was not meant to be solved. That was the case three and a half decades ago, at least. Now I’ll flip the page, and join my parents soon to tell them all about it.