I wish I were a triangle. Not the triangle that exists on the writing pad of the mathematician. It is imperfect — no one can create a perfect line. Rather, I wish to be the triangle conceived in the abstract and represented (only poorly) on the pad.
I know the poets speak of beauty resident within the flaws of existence. Such beauty has more luster in their anthologies than it does in the gritty realities of life. They too are mathematicians, but they sketch imperfect representations of even more imperfect realities.
I hate flaws. I prefer not to romanticize them. I tolerate them because I have no other option within the confines of sanity. If it were possible, I would indulge in the unspeakable loveliness of existence without suffering the unspeakable horror of its consequences.
I wish I were a triangle. Perfect.