F**k It

I've recently begun reading a new book the past few days by John C. Parkin called F**k it: the ultimate spiritual way. It's not about being reckless and having no care for anything- quite the opposite actually… but there have been a few paragraphs I've read that have literally stopped me in my tracks and changed my perception in everything around me - just like that.

Here's one from pages 30-31:

You work in a sandwich bar on London's Oxford Street. Your job is to help prepare the food, and though it's not like being a chef in a top restaurant, you take pride in your work and like doing what you do.

So, showing up to work on time and doing a god day's work matter to you. And sitting stationary in a tunnel somewhere between two London Underground stations when you were supposed to start your shift five minutes ago is doing you no good at all.

You've been sitting there for 16 minutes (yes, you know exactly how long). The driver's already announced twice that he doesn't know what the problem is, but he assures you that as soon as he does he'll let you know.

What makes it even more frustrating is that, if you'd known bout the delay sooner, you could have got out of the Tube and walked the rest of the way to work. You might have been a couple of minutes late, but it wouldn't have been enough o wind up your boss. Because at this moment, your boss will be looking at her watch, re-checking the rot as, and tutting as she says your name. 

As the second hand sweeps slowly round the face of your watch, everything is lateness getting bigger and bigger. You tap your fingers. You tap your foot. You curse. You look around the crowded Tube carriage and everyone is doing the same thing. Tutting, cursing, tapping. And shit, there's your boss, up there on Oxford Street, doing guess what - tutting, cursing and tapping.

But then, like a little bubble bursting inside your brain, you suddenly see yourself as if from the outside. Are you really getting this stressed about being half-an-hour late to make some flmain' sandwiches? For Christ's sake… another bubble bursts…
F**k it.

And your whole body relaxes as you slump back into the seat. Your breathing slows down and you look around as if you've seen a vision of the Virgin Mary herself. Everyone looks so stressed and stupid, but you feel so blissful and relaxed.

What are these idiots worrying about? Far worse things are happening to someone on this planet every minute of every day.

Chill out, boys and girls. Wake up and smell the bubbles.

You really begin to enjoy this time to yourself; you close your eyes and feel as if you're falling backwards. This is heaven. Perhaps the train actually crashed and the driver is St Peter, informing the passengers that he doesn't know how long it will e before they are cleared to go through to the gates of heaven. 

You feel the seat beneath you: it is like the comfiest armchair you've ever sat in. Why can't the other passengers feel that? We're so lucky to be treated to such comfortable seats - they would have been wooden benches a few years ago, you know. Let's count our blessings. In fact, you're surprised that people don't come down here, into this cosy rabbit warren of an underground network, just to relax. They should rebrand London Underground as a therapeutic relaxation experience and invite people to descend the long metal escalators to escape the madness of the city above.

Life is good.

And late that day, the people who eat the sandwiches that you have (belatedly) made feel a tiny rush of freedom rising up through their bodies. Like a tiny bubble floating up to the top of their heads and then bursting.