Proof

  It has been two weeks since he went off his meds. The last time he slept was two days ago. He wrote tirelessly for the better part of eighteen hours, and spent the rest of the time struggling with his own demons. Some of the demons were real on the physical plane, while others were the very thoughts in his head. He chewed his knuckles, staring at the collage of papers spread about his bed, all the time wondering why he had not noticed it before. Weighing his own work against the views of his opposition, he pondered the formulae, the proofs, as if seeing for the first time.

   Death followed deadlines, and death was not far behind. He paused to remove the gaudy bandana from his head. He ran his hand over greasy thinning hair and smooth tanned scalp. Clearly, Taylor was wrong in his equations, but he could never hope to understand the complex process involved in elevating the conversation from mere semantics to metaphysical stature. Still, there were no absolutes, save the possibility of a probable infinity captured and trapped within a finite frame of reference. The reference point would have to extend from a single spoke from a wheel, denoted by radial lines arching at incongruent angles perpendicular to the lines of perceived force, but well within the boundaries of artificial construct. The finite structures (presented by the use of parenthesis for obvious reasons) could hold an imperfect infinity, where the realm of possibility would embrace concepts and actions normally thought to be impossible in terms of classical logistics.

   The proof would not easily yield to his prodding and probing. He knew that time was closing in and he would need more time than he had left. By his careful calculations, a thousand lifetimes would not provide the necessary longevity required to solve the final equation, to yield the final proof.

   He needed to know NOW. He could not wait for death. He could not wait for the writing community, or the mathematics and semantic gurus of his time to offer assistance. The metaphysical community was more interested in turning a quick buck off uninspired pseudo-intellectuals than it was in finding any significant answers. He could not depend on any of them. He could not trust any of them. They were no more than insects, shadows of men, utterly hollow and lacking any real signs of intelligence.