right-angled triangles
I am sat on a barber’s stool, pondering what sort of conversation was never yet had. Not quite the words, but the meanings. What would that sound like? Maybe we’ve exhausted our supply of novelty. The thought has already gone rancid before the soft sting of aftershave has settled on my neck. I rise from my seat — my eyes catch a graphic print hoodie with the words “you must be reborn.” I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I suppose it felt like it should mean something to me. Maybe no conversation is ever truly identical because even from the same inputs we can always derive some new, deranged meaning.
Before heading out, I notice a child glaring at a goldfish in the waiting room. His father must have been sat next to me earlier. The goldfish is darting back and forth, still mapping out its surroundings, until it notices something in a far corner. It glides towards a detritus worm, which is itself unaware, and seemingly holds its own agenda: to scavenge for its predator’s faecal matter. The circle of life is a thing of wonder — all things find their meaning somewhere, even in the inane. But who am I to judge? I’m sure a higher species would have much to say of us.
I make my way to a neighbouring wharf and fold myself over a painted iron railing, catching the early spring breeze give signs of life. Newly planted plane trees with brightened bark and Mediterranean spurge sidle beside me. They tell me, “it’s all just patterns anyway.” Mounds of abstraction heaped on top of each other until nobody can tell you what’s underneath anymore. So softly they whisper, “but choose which hill you will die on”.
In life’s great costume party, which pattern am I? I ask myself why actors are oftentimes older than the roles they play, and I can only presume — it’s because you only understand what you no longer are.
I come back to observing the digits of a neighbouring tree unfold, spreading out in a shrinking geometric series of dactyly, eerily clawing empty space into infinite nothingness. It made me think of a conversation I had the other day, about whether maths was discovered or invented. The “conversation” was with a large language model. It mentioned Pythagoras, but I couldn’t help but wonder: in your world, do mountains come in right-angled triangles?