I had a conversation today with someone who writes, and I was reminded of how much I enjoy doing the same. I had a rush of inspiration flood me with desire to put pen to paper, or fingers to keys, and weave something satisfying. But afternoon turned into evening and evening into night and I’m tired. Beyond tired. I stood in the kitchen and ate a piece of partially burned pizza, entranced, or maybe just unable to move, maybe just unwilling to move, and I convinced myself that I was sleep walking. But then I remembered that I wanted to write. So here I am, sleep writing.
All my energy has been going into making solving for x something that’s not necessarily desirable because who ever wants to solve for x really, but I’ve coated it with something luring that makes the need to find solutions an endgame of war. I’ve never seen such effort in mass quantity. My job has become fun. Is it bad that I feel like Hansel’s witch in her house of Greek candy? Oh, that. I’m pushing Euclid’s drug, too. But that is a desirable something because who ever doesn’t want to play the logic game of spatial law. Mind-blowing stuff, all those infinitesimal bits of infinite space. Geo-metry: an Earthling’s attempt to measure the unmeasurable and understand the undefinable. Archimedes was said to have begged a Roman soldier to not touch his circles before promptly losing his head to the uninterested blade of a sword. I imagine the soldier shuffled his feet through the drawings in the dirt without a clue of what went into them. If the story is true, that is. Who lived to tell it? Regardless, mathematicians are mad—fun, but certifiable. We’d have to be. We have to be.
It’s long past my bedtime.