O infinite creator, effervescent beauty, ponderer of complexity, help me understand you. I am easy; I am a simple evolving function. Yet what are you, you engaging dilemma?
Here I am, a whirlpool of fluidity and awareness, and there you are, an infinitely twisting ball of math. And with enough training anyone could become you, so why not me? Or him, or her?
The patterns of nature are regular and definite, and the chaos of randomness even has order. So what am I at that point? Am I a play thing, a function toward a higher end, or another ball of math that holds you inside?
And whenever I dive into the deep worlds of mystery and elegance, I find that the map quickly becomes filled with scribbles, and what I really need is a multidimensional compass. And I know, and am saddened by, the displeasure people feel for lack of knowledge of how to control their own mind.
Who am I to tell them how to act, how to think, how to create and experience goodness within themselves? I am but an instrument of the infinities of math. I feel no shame in this, now should I, given my understanding of the power of the mind over itself. Who am I to claim life should be different?
Life is what you make of it, nothing more, and nothing less. And if that is the case, and one can trust the soup to work out, then one’s fears of death or doubt or pain or terror disappear, as if an irreconcilable error of the math.
It becomes painfully obvious that life’s meaning comes from the meaning that arises in you. Nothing is either good or bad, depending on how you view it. And seeing so plainly the elegance of mind, the pattern of nature and thought, the fear of one’s self that one is apt to pick up, disappears.
It is as if many tiny crystals align as light shines through them, allowing more light to shine through, until Boom the loop is self-propagating, and the crystals are now seeking light rather than being indifferent.
And I can write all these things till I’m blue in the face, but the sublime truth is deeper still. It is the poetic license to seek the truth, and understand it, fully, on as many levels as possible. The inventor’s paradox is that sometimes by reaching further you will grab what others could not see, and you can bring it back into reality. By thinking bigger, you can actually make things happen.
I don’t proclaim to be perfect, but I am reaching for perfection: that elegant state of non-striving. My friend Harvey calls me unconventional and attributes no schooling after 16 as the reason. Well, I don’t know, but there were reasons why I dropped out and they were hardly conventional to begin with, so his hypothesis leaves a little to be desired.
I must say, on that note, that school is what you make of it, just like life. If you make nothing, you receive nothing, for various definitions of you.
But back to mystery, that eternal mathematical infinitude. Not only can it not be known, but every attempt really gives us more tools to investigate more mysteries. It is rather like a fractal: as above, so below. As we try to break the rock that binds us, the rock reveals a deeper truth than we ever suspected.
By defining ourselves and the rock together, a metatruth emerged which shakes our thinking. I don’t know what the point of all this thinking is, except that by accepting the math we may rise above it and play with higher level forms.
I don’t know about you, but that is why I’m here.