The day had not gone well at all.  For the life of me it always surprised me the level of self-involvement that a teenager could have for the most inane things.  I don’t remember ever being that way, but I’ve always supposed that we never, ever see the true mirror image of who we were; nor most often, who we have become.

It is a state of mind, our state of existence to see the world through our biology instead of the precepts of our mind.  Are we Schrodinger’s cat?  Our perceptions determining our death or are we in the box, both alive and dead at the same time, the moment of our birth, a simultaneous event to the moment of our death; our perceptions always determining the nature of our understanding, the nature of our life.

Amused at myself for trying to make sense of life through the confusion of post-pubescent hormones on two legs, I started my jeep and left the high school behind for the night, leaving the intricacies of Eulid’s Geometry, and the foibles of teaching in the past for another day.

“Flatland” was still wondering its way through my mind, the book I had the kids reading for extra credit.  It was Edward Abbott’s satirical novel of a two-dimensional world, mimicking the irony of humanity, in the gilded cage of early Victorian life in England.  You could almost feel the disdain Abbott had for his own society in the characters he created, in a world of Geometric figures come to life.  A life like my own locked within the limits of a universe defined and limited by my own perceptions; perceptions whose dimensional topology voiced my social confusion with its asymmetry.

In “Flatland” life and death were locked within two dimensions, characters only able to move left, right, forward and backwards, movements only North, East, South and West.  A world with no ability to look up or down into our world of three dimensions.

Doesn’t it make you wonder the limits of our own Universe?  The inherent limits in our ability to see n-dimensional worlds that we cannot conceive of, that we can only imagine in metaphorical rabbit holes, that fold back into the recesses of our minds.  The Schizophrenic Mad Hatters of a mathematician’s mind, the only clarity voiced in the Poison Well we find ourselves within.