Diary of an unborn writer #29

So you're sitting for the third cosmology lesson for the week as Richard - the fine-pointed nosed man, steel-rimmed specs speaks with his nose close to the table. He's looking for the fine lines in the wood and seeing where the grain rhythmically pursues itself again and again. "It's fractal" he says with some definition, the infinite repeat somehow forming into his view.

It makes sense to him like this, the lines and repetitions a way his mind can grapple with disorder "which it empahtically is not" he says indignantly. There's so much order around us, it's arrogant to think there isn't.

"Possibly a projection?" you counter. "I mean you've found a higher state of order, one that can cope with dynamics but at some point you're imposing stasis. You're recognising it everywhere but just as surely as economists assume equilibrium, you're assuming fractals. They blow you're mind and you see them everywhere precisely because you're putting them there. It's an expansion and mesmorising for that but finally, my man, the order melts in on itself.

He grudgingly forgives you the point.