Expressive Explorations

The call of the wall, periodical, methodical ascent with intent. Route schematic; left-foot, right-hand, right-foot, left-hand, leap and swing, match and detach and on to the next. Choosing, falling, grooving and improving. Next day, wrists of clay, crumbled and stiffened, once agile, now fragile to any of the many daily demands on the hands. The habit was leaving on a wind of healing, fraught and caught and taken away, to be perennially a memory, a delight consumed by the violent bite of history.

A universal language demands my affection. While many see only anxieties, O Maths, I see such beauties. I see the Euler-Lagrange equation and its suitability for any occasion. I see Cantor and Gilbert sizing infinities and inspiring confused obscenities, and that's before any mention of differentiation! Numberphiles have shaped our lives, working from first principles, magic with threes, fours and fives, and our friend algebra; what abuse it survives. It gives certainty, quantifies and multiplies, O Maths, such pleasure from you derives. 

I stand, drained, at the foot of my bed and fall forward. My face hits the pillow, so hard, that it goes right through. Through the mattress and into the darkness between the floors. This is a space full of pursuers, chasing me through tunnels of wires, always unknown, always alone. I am moving, rotating from the initial descent, spinning until gravity disappears. Am I still falling, with nothing pulling me down?