As a child, there was
something I used to ponder. What would happen if you took a piece of paper, and
cut it into smaller and smaller pieces? You could cut the paper in half, then
cut one of those halves in half, and then one of those halves in half. So on
and so on it would go. In my mind, I imagined an endless sequence of cutting
halves of paper, always being able to make it just one bit smaller. Ad
Infinitum.
How do you fit an
eternity into a sheet of paper? It was such a brilliant mystery. Yet, with tiny
fingers, I could never reach the conclusion to infinity. Eventually, all I was
left with was a ball of pulp and sweat.
Then I learned of the
molecule.
Atoms as well.
And then much more exotic
concepts. Suddenly my little piece of white, crinkled paper had become the
playing field for universal movements.
A gust of wind swept in
from my right, knocking my thoughts out of my head. I turned to face my
invisible foe, battering the face of the mountain. I couldn’t very well
continue walking down this path without a break, so I decided to take a seat on
the nearest park bench. It was a brisk autumn day. I zipped up my jacket,
watching as my breath unfolded from my mouth into the crisp air.
I recollected my
thoughts, snatching them out of the wind. I remembered what you had said to me
a few years ago, “Might we someday regret pursing these answers? Sometimes I’ve
wondered if it’s all really worth it. Should this incomprehensible madness
really be made clear? I used to gaze up at the stars with such wonder and
amazement. Now I keep my blinds shut at night.”
There was a time when I
disagreed with you, vehemently so.
Now however, I was living
at the toes of ancient mountains, steeped not in the din of man, but in idyllic
nature. Chaotic nature. I’d stopped climbing up manmade ladders, only to find
myself breathlessly clambering upwards the hierarchy of minerals. What greeted
me at the pinnacle wasn’t a paycheque and adoration, but a spectacular view of
the Rockies. A view nature never meant to afford me.
“Good afternoon,” a
fellow hiker greeted me with a smile as he passed by on the trail. “Snow’s just
starting to fall. You probably have a good hour before it gets really bad.” He
maintained a smile, searching my face for commonality. Apparently not finding
what he was looking for, he turned away with a brief wave and nod.
I wasn’t the kind of
person to engage a stranger in small talk. I also wasn’t the kind of person to
go hiking around Lake Louise. Tucked away in my apartment, reading a book I’d
studied multiple times before, I decided today was going to be a different kind
of day.
“Have a good day, sir!” I
called after the man, but he was already weaving down the final stretch of the
path. Perhaps he heard me, perhaps he didn’t. Sound carries far in these lonely
mountains. I glanced up the trail for a second chance, but saw that I was
alone.
A different voice, not
from the mountains, drifted through my mind, “Why are you leaving?” Not
necessarily a query, more like a challenge despite its questioning form. A
simple query, asked by many, but most importantly by you. You’d been the one to
speak that question often, even when so much time and space separated us.
Distance had never been difficult for you to overcome.
The drive from my little
town, flooded seasonally by tourists, to this hiking trail had taken a matter
of minutes.
The drive, the flight,
and the escape from the bustling cities I used to live within, to the cold,
fairly desolate Canadian wilderness had been a much longer affair. Spanning so
many years. In those cities, I was ‘eminent in my field,’ someone who would be
rewriting college textbooks for decades to come. The IV needle of knowledge,
drip by drip feeding the rest of society. Out here in the wilderness, I was
just another variable in the ecosystem, trying to find meaning in my niche.
Again I heard you asking
the question, “Why are you leaving?” Although I’d never come up with a
satisfactory answer for you, I’d come up with plenty of good reasons for
myself.
Sometimes I wish I had
never pondered that little piece of paper.
I’m forever grateful I
met you. Sitting amidst piles of papers and textbooks, staring quizzically at
your computer screen. How quickly did your brow unfurrow when
you saw me. For just a little while, the questions didn’t nip at our toes.
Formulas and equations were never more meaningless. It was in this momentary
pause of our quest that something was found.
But this is too sappy to
be spoken aloud. So I only thought it to myself during those days, which
somehow managed to be months. Several millennia, if I’m honest. I never did
tell you.
I stared up at the sky,
and above it to the celestial bodies beyond. I saw white flakes fall all around
me. I got up, shaking a few of the flakes from my head, and headed further up
the trail. I was still breathing heavily, with every step I could feel the
tension mounting in my legs and chest.
After twenty or so more
minutes of hiking, I was lost in a world consisting of howling winds and sharp
snowflakes.
“What happens when you
cut a piece of paper into smaller and smaller pieces?” You stared up at
me, half of your lips participating in a smile. “Reduction, of course.”
“Is that all?” I held out
my hand to shield my face from the ice and snow. “Is that all?” I said it
louder this time, desperately competing with the maelstrom. I shouted it
the next time. I screamed it the last time. No matter of intensity or loudness could
break through the malevolent storm falling down upon me. I collapsed onto the
dirt and snow of the hiking trail.
I collapsed into a
simpler, brutal world.
