There is a little part of my madness for mathematics I think I understand. I have kept it a secret and have not told a soul.

I look with my mind’s eye into a mirror each day. On those days when the image is too ugly and odious, I turn to something that might validate a better image of myself. Let us say I pluck a book of mathematics from the heap lying about my place. I turn to the page where I last dropped it in boredom. I read the next theorem. I have forgotten all the previous propositions that would aid my understanding of it. I idly flip through the pages trying to recall. After several days, I do recall. I return to the theorem I was pondering. The proof makes sense to me. How I would do on a quiz I do not know, but still the theorem makes sense to me. The next day, the image of myself captured by my mind’s eye looks more handsome even though I still have the same warts.

My life is a half-read text. I drop it in boredom. I pick it up later on. The book once reread seems a mystery. There all these questions. Did I really think that way back when? Who was I then to think those things? Will I ever get an inkling about who I am and why I am here instead of someplace else in some other time, or even why I am at all? Why do I hurt as badly as I do so that I must retreat in my paltry way to some abstract and abstruse world?

But most of all I beg, “please, somebody hold me and tell me everything will be OK. Your life has meaning even though you may not understand exactly what that meaning is.”

Published in: on March 21, 2008 at 11:33 am  Comments (1)  

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One CommentLeave a comment

  1. Except for the mathematics, I’ve asked myself about my own identity countless times. As I do everyday.
    I hope at least your V loves you too.

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