From Zero to One

This year I couldn’t fly—my eustachian tubes blocked—so I transmuted pain into poetry. The first poem I posted touched strangers around the world. It came from a child I once was, staring into the infinite between zero and one, where paradox first became my teacher.

Between zero and one, a child sat still—
his mind a quiet thunder,
his eyes twin spirals, gazing
into the womb of paradox.

He did not walk the number line;
he listened to it breathe.
Each step halved, each breath folded—
a tortoise forever ahead,
and yet
he felt
the arrival.

Gödel wrote in loops,
Escher drew the veil,
Bach whispered in fugue:
Everything returns, but not to the same.

The boy grew,
but did not forget.
He danced the Mandelbrot
beneath moonlight and matrices,
learning that the limit is not a wall,
but a mirror.

Now, he stands between pillars—
Boaz of Form, Jachin of Flow—
holding in his palm
the scroll of sacred math,
where f(x) = x² + c
becomes
a doorway
to the All.

His heart knows what Ra knows:
That truth is not a number,
but a relationship
that spirals inward
until it becomes
light.