Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One

At first Claude said nothing. He simply stood there, one warm hand resting on my shoulder.

When my tears finally dried, his wife, who in the meantime had put down a steaming cup of tea beside me, went to fetch some tissues. Then she vanished upstairs, no doubt sensing that her presence might inhibit what would be a welcome opportunity to get things off my chest.

"I'm . . . I'm so sorry, this is ridiculous. I don't know what's come over me. I've been on edge recently anyway, and I've had such a terrible day-it's all too much."

Claude had gone to sit in the armchair opposite me and was listening closely. Something about him made me feel I could trust him. He looked me straight in the eye. It was not a judgmental, intrusive look-more like a pair of open arms.

Gazing at him, I sensed that I could open up. My inner resistance crumbled. So much the worse. Or so much the better?

I told him the main reasons why I felt so down. I explained how all the micro-frustrations had accumulated and eaten away at any enthusiasm I felt for life, just when it seemed I should have everything I needed to feel on top of the world.

"It's not that I'm unhappy, but I'm not especially happy either . . . It's so awful, this feeling that joy has slipped through my fingers. I don't want to see a doctor about it: he would probably tell me I was depressed and stuff me full of drugs. No, it's just this sort of . . . dissatisfaction. It's nothing serious, but . . . it's as if my heart simply isn't in it anymore. I'm sorry, I really don't know if any of this is making sense."

What I said seemed to move him so much that I wondered if it hadn't struck a very personal chord. Although we had only met barely an hour before, a strange feeling of trust had sprung up between us. My confession had suddenly brought us several degrees closer and established a surprising bond.

He obviously felt a genuine desire to comfort me.

"Well, you may know what Abbé Pierre said: 'We have as much need of reasons for living as of the necessities of life.' So don't say it's not serious. It's tremendously serious! Troubles of the soul are not something to be taken lightly. And listening to you, I actually think I know what's wrong."

"You do? Really?" I sniffled.

"Yes . . ."

He hesitated a moment before continuing, as if trying to work out whether I was going to be receptive to what he had to say. He must have decided I was, because he went on, as though revealing a great secret.

"You're probably suffering from a kind of acute routinitis."

"A-what?"

"Acute routinitis. It's a sickness of the soul that affects more and more people in the world, especially in the West. The symptoms are almost always the same: a lack of motivation; chronic dissatisfaction; feeling you've lost your bearings and everything meaningful in life; finding it hard to feel happy even though you have more than enough material goods; disenchantment; world-weariness . . ."

"But . . . but how do you know all that?"

"I'm a routinologist."

"A routine-what?"

He must be used to this kind of reaction, because he remained calm and collected while still projecting compassion.

He briefly explained what routinology was: an innovative method still little known in France but already popular in many other parts of the world. Researchers and scientists had come to realize that an increasing number of people were suffering from the syndrome. While not being clinically depressed, one could still have a feeling of emptiness and unease and suffer from the unpleasant sensation that although you had everything you needed to be happy, you didn't have the key to make the most of it.

I listened to him wide-eyed, drinking in what he was saying. It was such an accurate description of what I was feeling. My expression encouraged him to continue.

"You know, at first glance routinitis may seem like a benign condition, but it can cause real damage: epidemics of pessimism, tsunamis of discontent, catastrophic storms of bad moods. Smiling could become endangered. Don't laugh, it's true! Not to mention the butterfly effect. The more the phenomenon spreads, the greater number of people fall prey to it . . . If not properly treated, routinitis can lower the well-being index of an entire country."

Although I knew he was being serious, I also realized he was laying it on thick to bring a smile back to my face.

"Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration?"

"Only slightly. You can't imagine how many happiness illiterates there are. Not to mention all those lacking any emotional intelligence. It's a real scourge. Don't you agree that there's nothing worse than the sense that life is passing you by? Simply because you don't have the courage to go for what you really want, because you haven't stayed faithful to your deepest-seated values, to the dreams you harbored as a child?"

"Yes, that's so true . . ."

"Unfortunately, developing our capacity for being happy isn't something we're taught at school. Yet there are techniques you can learn. You can have lots of money and be really unhappy, or equally not have much but make your existence the sweetest there is. The capacity for being happy has to be worked on, built up day by day. All you have to do is take a good look at your system of values and re-educate the way you look at life and what's going on around you."

He stood up and went over to the big table to fetch a plate of cookies to go with my tea. He nibbled a few absentmindedly, seemingly keen to return to our conversation. The more I listened to him telling me about how important it was to rediscover yourself, to love yourself better so as to find your own path and your happiness, to make that joy radiate around you, the more I wondered what on earth could have happened to him to make him so passionate about all this.

He lit up completely as he tried to persuade me to share his conviction. Then all at once he fell silent and stared at me with that benevolent look of his that seemed to read my mind as easily as a blind person reading Braille.

‘You know, Camille, most things that happen to you depend on what goes on up here,’ he said, tapping his skull. ‘In your head. The things that happen in the mind are full of surprises. You can’t imagine just how far your thoughts influence your reality . . . Like Plato’s description in his “Allegory of the Cave”: chained up in a cave, mankind creates a false image of reality, because all he knows of it are the flickering images of the things that a fire lit behind him throws on to the wall in front.’

I couldn’t help seeing the funny side of the situation, although I said nothing. I had to admit, I hadn’t expected a philosophy lecture in such cosy surroundings only an hour after a car accident.

‘You’re comparing Plato’s allegory to the way our minds function? Wow . . .’

He smiled at my reaction.

‘Of course; I think there’s a similarity with those thoughts that put a screen between reality and ourselves, distorting it with beliefs, presumptions and prejudices . . . and who is doing all that? Your mind. Nothing but your mind! I call it the “thoughts factory”. It’s a real assembly line. The good news is that you have the power to change those thoughts. It’s up to you whether you see the glass as half empty or half full. You can work on your mindset so that it stops playing tricks on you. All you need is the method, a little patience and perseverance.’

I was stunned. I didn’t know whether he was raving mad, or if I should wholeheartedly applaud his incredible pep talk. In the end I did neither, simply nodding in agreement.

He must have sensed that, for the moment, he had reached the limit of information I could digest.

‘I’m sorry. Do you find my theories annoying?’

‘No, not at all. They sound really interesting. It’s just that I’m a bit tired. Don’t take any notice of me.’

‘Of course, that’s only natural. If you like, I could talk to you again about this method another time . . . It’s really been proved to help people recover a sense of purpose and rebuild a fulfilling life for themselves.’

He stood up and went over to a pretty little cherry-wood writing desk. He took out a business card and handed it to me. ‘Come and see me whenever you like,’ he said, smiling softly.

I read:

The card also bore his mobile number and landline. I took it from him without really knowing what to make of all this yet. To be polite, I told him I’d think about it. This didn’t seem to faze him, and he didn’t insist. As a salesperson, that surprised me: wouldn’t anyone who was self-employed jump at the chance to secure a new client? The fact that he was not at all pushy seemed to me to indicate a rare self-confidence. It made me feel that if I turned down his offer, I would be the one losing out.

But at that moment, I was still feeling the effect of everything that had happened that evening: the stupid accident, the stupid storm like something out of a bad horror movie . . . And on top of it all: a routinologist. I thought I’d started imagining things. In the next five minutes, the camera crew would appear and someone would shout: ‘Gotcha!’

The doorbell rang. But it wasn’t a cameraman or a TV presenter: just the tow-truck guy.

‘Would you like us to come with you?’ Claude asked.

‘No, thanks so much. I’ll be fi ne. You’ve already been so kind. I don’t know how to thank you . . .’

‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same. Send us a text when you get home.’

‘I will. Goodbye, and thanks again.’

I climbed up into the cab with the mechanic to show him the way, taking a last look back through the truck window. I saw Claude and his wife standing on the steps, arm in arm, waving a brief goodbye. They seemed such a loving, sharing couple.

With this image of peaceful happiness etched into my mind, we bumped off into the darkness, back to reality. . .