the lost man chronicles
93. the carousel of life

It seems as if some of the most important things in life are round—dilated pupils, drops of liquid—the rings formed by them, gyrating heavenly bodies—their elliptical paths, a woman's eggs, the protruding round of her womb, the concave tag that rests in our bellies after we have been separated from our mothers, her mammaries and the ends which reattached us when she nourished us with her milk, the tiniest particles of vapor, our blood cells, the sun, the holes by which we breath, hear and conceive; the lenses we use to best reflect light and capture it, the core of the earth. Why?

Why not square or rectangular or triangular?

The oldest and practically universal geometric metaphor used to symbolize life is the circle. Whether it is measured by the passage of time, days or the cycle of mortality—life seems to be best represented by a never-ending spin. An infinity that does not end with the individual self, but simply recycles us back into everyone and everything.

For those who struggle, wrestle, and futilely attempt to obstruct its passage, our cyclic strife becomes an ailing vertigo. But she who accepts the inevitable journey of the whirl, ends up being the happy girl who enjoys the ride on the carousel of life.

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