I awaken on the floor, cold linoleum against my flesh, surrounded by the smudged ink marks that mark my latest attempts at understanding.

For a long time I lie there, patterns running through my mind, until the needs of my body are able to intrude upon the ever closer to perfect arrangements I am making. I am hungry, and the physical needs exceeds the mental. I regret losing the pattern I have created but I let it fade back into my mind and stand up.

I stumble to the kitchen but am unable to find the nourishment I need. Empty packages and unwashed eating implements are scattered about, their surfaces mottled with the odd, semi-random patterns of mold and decay. I ignore them; I have examined their patterns long ago and find them lacking. I briefly consider the trails of the ants streaming across the counter, watching as they morph and wander in predictable but still random motion but they too I have previously considered and found unable to produce the true patterning I need.

I realize that I must leave my place of safety and venture again into the world of others. Into that realm where man has forced existence into plain, orderly patterns that inhibit the growth of true beauty. I stumble into my long-ignored bedroom in search of appropriate clothing.

I ponder long over my choice in what to wear, searching for those items which will exist in the necessarily exquisite harmony with one another. Of course I fail; the dyes and fabrics of mere reality cannot produce the patterns I need but I come as close as I can. I grab some money from the box beside the bed and stuff it into my pocket without examining it; I know that the numbers on the bills holds no meaningful pattern but I would examine it again and again for something which does not exist if I allowed myself and the needs of my body are great enough that they override what would normally consume the better part of my day.

I walk to the store. I had a vehicle once but its patterns displeased me and I abandoned it; I no longer even remember where. I keep my eyes lowered to the path as I walk, not wanting to see the offensive order which has been imposed on the streets through which I walk. Likewise I keep my eyes on the floor as I make the familiar rounds through the store. The arrangement of items on the shelves, the patterns of shape and color, call to me and I cannot let myself hear their call. Once before I did; I glimpsed within the patterns on the shelf a brief hint of the beauty of truth. I attempted to arrange the items on the shelves, to bring out the truth that was within them, but the owners of the store did not understand the pattern I was creating and they threw me out. I protested and fought them as they pulled me from the shelf and returned the items to their orderly, uninteresting places but I was forced to leave. I have not returned there since.

I grabbed the items that I knew would sustain me and carried them to the checkout, throwing them onto the belt and not looking at them lest I see truth or offense in the pattern they had made. Likewise I did not look upon the bills I gave to the cashier nor did I look at the bills he gave back to me. There would be time enough to examine the new patterns contained within the numbers on them later.

A woman behind me made some comment, some rebuke about my behavior. I looked up, seeing her for the first time. Most would have considered her attractive I suppose, but only those who had not gazed upon the true beauty hidden among the numbers and patterns as I had. I saw her as offensive and so I took my provisions and left that place, eyes cast downward as I returned to my home.

Once there I took my time placing my groceries upon their shelves and in the refrigerator. I moved them around until their pattern revealed the beauty within them. Seeing it, I closed the door to the refrigerator and, taking the rag and pen that are always nearby, scrubbed the old equations off of its surface and began to draw them anew, seeking the beauty within that only I have ever seen and which I have never been able to find again.

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