Let me contemplate my relationship with infinity.
At roughly 11 years old, I had a delusion of grandeur that I would be nothing short of the next Pioneer Woman. I possessed no particular talents in the kitchen but was thrilled at the thought of it, and I figured I could at least make a career out of it, if not match Ree Drummond. I would routinely stalk not only her website, but soon smaller blogs as well (Cupcakes and Cashmere, Bake at 350, Your Cup of Cake). This could be my forever passion, my future career, my defining characteristic. But internally, I worried. It is so easy to follow a recipe. Much harder, it seemed to me, to create one from scratch. I wondered how these pretty ladies with pun-titled websites formulated their recipes—how they had such originality. Certainly, there must be a limit. There are only so many ways to make chocolate chip cookies, are there not? And if so, how was I to develop my own? What if I unintentionally stole someone else’s?
At roughly 11 years old, I had a delusion of grandeur that I would be nothing short of the next Pioneer Woman.
I had little time for hobbies as I entered high school and threw myself into academia with full force. In my mind, my entire future teetered on each grade. If my AP U.S. History grade dropped from an A- to a B+, I swore I could feel the scales shifting and my entire life changing course. This mentality followed me for years, and while I spent nearly half of my college experience inside and alone with my thoughts, my paranoia resurfaced. Obviously, there is a limit to the words in the English language, and hence, there must be a limit to the combination of words we can string together to make sentences. I could maybe-potentially-accidentally plagiarize someone else’s writing, compromise my entire college career—and that terrified me. In retrospect, that is entirely unrealistic (right?).
When I think of infinity, I think of its absence. I see limits growing more prevalent with time, and that scares me, a lot. Although there’s countless variations of x, y, or z, it makes my chest tighten thinking that, should someone be able to count however high, a maximum may exist.
But at the same time, I am scared of infinity. I got into an argument with a friend my junior year of high school when she insisted that, because the universe is infinite, there are infinite versions of yourself. And I thought, “absolutely not.” I cannot willingly believe in an infinite universe, simply because it is overwhelming. Instead of spiraling into the milky way, I choose to believe that at some point, you can walk right off the edge.
Instead of spiraling into the milky way, I choose to believe that at some point, you can walk right off the edge.
Of course, when you fall off the edge, you’re bound to end up somewhere else. Or maybe into nothing. Nothing is infinite, though. So maybe I have undone all my thoughts, but I will not go down that road.
What a headache.
I pray everything has an end. I like what is real, what is concrete. I can trust what’s in front of me, as far as I can see. A negative trait? A defensive trait? (I’m working on it.)
But what if I need more? What if words fail me? I’m scared of hitting a wall, the end of possibilities.
How annoying that is! To worry about running out and hitting capacity, and to be afraid of never doing so! To be exhausted by a constant but cry at its goodbye! I don’t want limits, but I cannot be forever.
There is comfort in neither.
