(On Infinity, Fate, and the Mathematics of Being)

She kept time not in hours

but in digits—

beads of a celestial abacus

gliding with divine indifference.

I asked her:

What is the sum of the lives I never lived?

She answered with silence,

then turned the abacus upside down.

Fibonacci spiraled in the roots of her hair.

Her breath was an algorithm,

repeating across generations

in loops I could not trace.

“Every prophecy,” she whispered,

“is a limit—

the closer you reach,

the more it escapes you.”

I mapped constellations in polar coordinates,

hoped to solve for meaning

in a world defined

by irrational constants.

She laughed.

“π is just a story,” she said.

“And so are you.”

But I believed her—

because only myths are real enough

to make us count

the uncountable.