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A few years back, during that awkward turn in college where you realize just how close you are to your future, I took a required course in Geometry. This was by no design my forte, and at nineteen it felt particularly unjust. I did not change this view until that first day, where in spite of myself, I entered the lab and listened to the professor.

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This man did more than teach. He assigned a book he himself had written. He spent half his sessions marveling at the expanses of euclidean space. He peppered lessons with historical influences of geometric design. He told the class, more than once, that he would often find himself sitting in a coffee shop, consumed by developing a proof to a particularly grueling theorem, only to look up and realize more than six hours had passed. A geometric proof, he explained, was really just a mathematician proving their point in terms with which they understood and identified. 

 

I spent my life loving words, but did not learn until that course the true power of language. We are each bound by that universal desire to connect, to learn, to prove, and perhaps most importantly, to understand and be understood.

 

So it would appear that in one of life's many ironies a math professor, and his passion for geometric intricacies, ignited my own devotion and reverence of the written word. Writing, when catered to, ventures its own expanses. I write to seek these truths and their lack. I write to quell my own curiosities and spark the same in others. I write because if I do not, I'm left with twitching fingers and a spiraling mind. 

 

I write because, sometimes, I find myself sitting in a coffee shop working on a particularly grueling splatter of prose, only to look up and realize that more than six hours have passed.

 

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