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I think about falling in math class.

The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.

The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.

As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.

I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. The way the numbers fall in on themselves in an infinite recursion and coil into tiny self-similar spirals that spawn their own iteration over and over and over again.

The girl next to me looks bored, head resting heavily on hand, occasionally snapping her gum and flipping long blonde hair with an obnoxious sigh as though the look on her face weren't enough evidence of her complete disinterest. I'm writing numbers and doodling curves on blank graph paper; the curves become a heart.

I'm falling behind in math class. I'm running in spirals that corkscrew around the y-axis of a z-plane full of random integers and imaginary numbers, where eight is indifferent from infinity. There's a ratio, a correlation, some unknown relationship between myself and these digits that keeps calling me back to that which I don't understand. That finds unspeakable beauty in mysteries. Mathematics is my asymptote.

I'm failing math class, but it's never been a more elegant fall.

Description
I think about falling in math class.

The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.

The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.

As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.

I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. The way the numbers fall in on themselves in an infinite recursion and coil into tiny self-similar spirals that spawn their own iteration over and over and over again.

The girl next to me looks bored, head resting heavily on hand, occasionally snapping her gum and flipping long blonde hair with an obnoxious sigh as though the look on her face weren't enough evidence of her complete disinterest. I'm writing numbers and doodling curves on blank graph paper; the curves become a heart.

I'm falling behind in math class. I'm running in spirals that corkscrew around the y-axis of a z-plane full of random integers and imaginary numbers, where eight is indifferent from infinity. There's a ratio, a correlation, some unknown relationship between myself and these digits that keeps calling me back to that which I don't understand. That finds unspeakable beauty in mysteries. Mathematics is my asymptote.

I'm failing math class, but it's never been a more elegant fall.