The Song of the Rubik’s Cube

There are millions of unsolved Rubik’s Cubes in the world today.

Sitting in boxes and bags, on shelves, in cupboards, and all with each side sharing segments of the same color. And that isn’t to mention the off brand cubes or the other 3D shapes: the pyramids, the dodecagons and the irregular cubes.

I have no idea how many people in history have solved a Rubik’s Cube, and I am still a little unclear about how messed up it has to be in the first place before you can start the puzzle with honesty, but I imagine the fate is mostly the same – the sides destined to never be of uniform color again, and the very sight of it a reminder of lost time, frustration and blind rage.

Statistically speaking, to solve a Rubik’s Cube cannot be too far removed from having the ability to un-fry an egg or standing on a riverbank and watching the river flow uphill. Yet even with these odds, the market is there because everyone knows that to solve a Rubik’s Cube is a demonstration of intellectual savvy and flexibility, or even genius.

The lust after solving the puzzle is what keeps this market energized even with such an abysmal return on investment. To sell a Rubik’s Cube is to sell a pocket of hope, much like a ticket down at the dog track – but a Rubik’s Cube is for life, not just for Christmas. An unsolved Rubik’s Cube occupies the same amount of space as a solved one.

I presume there are some people in the world that can begin a conversation with, “I solved a Rubik’s Cube once.” But what does that tell us about them? Should we infer that it would be advantageous to enter into some sort of friendship with them? It doesn’t appear to carry the same weight as, “Would you like me to clear out that large briar patch in your garden for you?” or, “I’ll have a word with the mayor and see if he’ll give you permission to raise goats.”

The metaphors that come from millions of unsolved Rubik’s Cubes are harrowing. A Cube on a shelf for five years, ten years, fifty years, unsolved, and destined for a yard sale or landfill. You cannot help but anthropomorphize the Cube and feel sad that it was brutally messed up and nobody was able to solve it. There is an entire population or nation of these Cubes, all disfigured by humans in their search for fame and glory. If the will of the Rubik’s Cube to be whole again was a song, it would deafen us with its sorrow.

There are more Cubes showing uniform color on all sides that were made that way, than were solved. They were made perfect for the very purpose of abuse. To be twisted until each face is no longer recognizable. And on the event of being solved, perhaps they are kept as trophies of luck and/or skill, but human curiosity quickly disfigures and abandons them again.

An unsolved Rubik’s Cube is a constant reminder of failure and then rejection; it wears its shame on its face. The Cube is not permitted to metamorphose, evolve, or rehabilitate, an unsolved Cube in all probability will remain an unsolved Cube, spurned by time and human optimism.

So, the next time you find yourself playing with a Rubik’s Cube, if you’re not crying, then you’re doing it wrong.