Tal vez 🍞 :
Beauty, thou sayest? Nay—such a word, though noble in lineage and oft sung in verses of yore, finds no rightful place here. To call mathematics beautiful is naught but a fanciful delusion, a shared mirage whispered amongst those who, perchance, seek meaning where none resides, and solace where only cold abstraction reigns.
It is not beauty—it is austerity clad in the guise of order. It is the sterile murmur of logic echoing through halls where no heart dares dwell. Those who proclaim its elegance do so, mayhap, not from revelation but from resignation, for they know not what else to exalt, nor what other altar to kneel before.
To speak of beauty in numbers is to mistake precision for passion, to dress rigor in the robes of wonder. And thus, they gather—these acolytes of calculation—not in pursuit of truth eternal, but to busy their minds and stave off the silence that would otherwise confront them.
Call it knowledge, if thou must. Call it structure, discipline, even dominion over the formless void. But beauty? No, gentle soul. That name belongs to song, to sorrow, to stars dying in the quietude of night—not to digits and symbols etched in ink upon forgotten pages.
2025-06-16 23:57:35