Notes from a Möbius Strip

 The calloused hand. The brief ache of thumb and index finger, slim pen pressed against dermis and thin, profusely inked paper. Unlabelled Chinese tea, over-steeped and exhaling bitterness — tart, drying, faintly medicinal. The mandible churned by a neural mortar and pestle; nerves like tangled wires running to my temple. Flashcards, done.

 I glance at my Anki heatmap — that glimmering jade array of days (years) spent revising, crafting mnemonics, fusing fleeting statistics to the thrum of electronic music. I step away from the computer. Morning light bleeds through the living room like spilled milk, revealing not-so-ephemeral fingerprints dotted across the sofa. Brown leather bag flung over sun-bleached corduroy — is it still olive, or has it finally turned brown? Final exam, taken.

 What should be celebratory feels more like a shooting star — a bright, darting light that seems to have happened centuries ago. My capacity to inhabit the present is hindered by some imagined geometry. I see myself on the other end (if there is an end) of the Möbius strip: same outfit, same expression — four years done. Distant, but freeing.

 The next day I open my laptop again, out of habit. Waiting to memorise the three main prefrontal cortex disorders. When I close it, I murmur to myself: Dysexecutive, Apathetic, Disinhibited. Holding knowledge with nowhere to put it.

 Liminality is always complicated. Like a sheer goo coating the limbs, slowing the machinations of bone and muscle. I can’t stay in one place. So I put on disco, walk around the neighbourhood with its domineering hills of dirt and machinery. Visit the small lake with its weeping trees and evening croaks. Feel the discomfort of being in the present — and of being too aware of it. I’m here. Now.

 Four years of computer labs, lectures, and lurking — four years of information gnawing, pleasantly, at intuition. Each year (’22–’25) its own landscape, its own mutating diorama. The lights turning on and off depending on how late at night it is.

’22

 Sneakers tread down from the art gallery to the Arts campus. February heat swelters; perspiration like pearls across linen. I’ve come out of a slow, depressive summer — days spent listening to video essays, painting Google-Maps landscapes. Orientation week: a tangle of anticipation and homesickness, though I’m minutes from home. A fear of change, of the beginning. Then I’m in a lecture theatre filled with hundreds of psychology students. I feel as Pluto must. Am I a planet yet? Will I ever be one?

 My body is heavy and unfinished, lunging toward clubs and shared spaces. My mind — a nervous animal wearing the armour of bone and skin. Later, a cold evening down south, air stained with wine and charred crust. People around the campfire, their skin like wax against the cruelty of the flames. Why did I feel so distant, despite being so close?

’23

 The old train to Bunbury passes scorched pastures and unvisited stations. I never stop sketching; I want the pen to be a conduit between myself and some documented understanding of here and now. Writing alone isn’t enough. I ask myself which undulating lines were there when we picked up our luggage, when we flashed our tickets. Silence is always a challenge. I can’t tell whose discomfort it is — mine or theirs. The trip falls through my fingers like sand.

 My bedroom is dim. The desk lamp always on. Going outside twists my fascia into unwelcome positions, but that burn is worth it for my volunteering. I design my first alternate-reality game — weeks spent on posters, cryptography, waiting. Immense gratitude hums beneath the fatigue. I end my nineteenth birthday with a copy of Neruda and a quiet laugh under my breath.

’24

 How do you know when to leave? When distant fireworks sound like mockery? When your skin feels alien — repelling its own dissatisfaction? I knot the fabric with charred thread and expect the centre to hold. Later, the scissors cut deeper than I meant them to.

 Where was I, besides lost in constructed decadence? Unaware of that Möbius strip again — the me watching me, warning me. Fitted suit jacket, blistering oxfords, clammy against rosewood. Burnt-chocolate croissant in the air fryer, sterile tiles in my periphery. The following months spent building a cocoon, then crawling out of it.

’25

 My body feels light, cradled by air. Summer warmth subdued beneath the Psychology building’s roof. The bulletin board a mosaic of research flyers and hopeful eyes. Morning tea with the new Honours cohort: Who’s your supervisor? What project? Full-time or part-time? An echo of first year’s curiosity, softened by recognition.

 My colleague and I reach our supervisor’s office, sitting upright despite the pillowy chairs. Projects are tossed around like juggling balls, and after a few weeks, we catch one. I read daily — articles, fiction, theory. The rest of the hours are spent trying to comprehend advanced statistics. I get there, eventually.

 I split my life between suburb and countryside. When uninspired, I climb the same hill and wait for the wind to hit just right. My friends are espresso shots for a tired mind — the snap of bottle openers, the hum of laughter. The artists, the magicians.

 I end the semester trying to cram knowledge like clothes into a suitcase minutes before departure. Then I’m boarding the plane — or leaving the exam hall — and I can see the clouds. Where will I land?