Máthēma Of Depression (WiP)

NUMBER THEORY

prime numbers

can be divided

only by themselves

and one

it always seemed

like a good

starting point

2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13… 

I always liked

the idea of 2

being the only

prime that was even

but there was

never anything even

about me

and always

plenty of odd

{ 2k+1:k ∈ Z }

LOGIC

they used to

teach us

that there are 

only two values:

and that things can be

either true

or false

(and there is nothing

in between)

x = 1 ⊕ x = 0

it never felt

like a good time

to start telling

the truth

so I just started

to stay silent

more and more

x = 0

MATHEMATICAL ANALYSIS

my mind got broken

so many times

pieces went

missing

and I knew

it will never be

whole again

x = [0,1)

SET THEORY

sometimes 

I’ve been

too little:

too little of

a golden middle

or too little

to be

someone else’s

future

(soon I’ve became

too little

to be a

future

for myself)

x ∈ Ø

LOGIC 2

alternatively

I could’ve been

too much:

it was like a

swear word

- by that time

I’ve already been

too much sad

for far too much time

so surely

too much can’t be

anything good

thus - surely -

I can’t be

any good

QED

four three

on the roof

just before

the dawn

air smells

like ice

it's so easy

to imagine

you are just

a fly

caught in

the white foggy

amber

two

I watch

birds

come

and

go

and do

a countdown

with every finger

I lose

feeling to

one

nothing

rain

I am sitting in an ugly and depressing bar. It’s raining outside and it creates a constant hum that swallows all of the other sounds. I start to watch raindrops that hesitantly make a downfall from the edge of the canopy. Unwillingly or maybe even against my own will I start to count them. I know for a fact that it will be very hard to stop. And when I finally succeed my relief will be strained and polluted. Uneasy. “Fuck”, I think to myself to avoid thinking it when you will be next to me. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Forty-seven.

So – it may be that you will walk into this bar just when I will move on to the number fifty-seven. You will have this nervous smile on your face: a bit apologetic, a bit absent. You will also make this weird wave with your hand that could be sort of “hello” but could also mean nothing. I will be still counting – probably won’t stop before sixty-one.

You might come a little bit later, when I’ll be in the low hundreds. If that’s the case I might not even look at you and simply keep on staring ahead. And it’s not because I would be already pissed off with you for all that waiting – it would happen simply because once I get to the three digit plane – it is so fucking hard to stop (it takes at least twenty numbers). But you know it. You would sit down at the table and wait. You could even make a remark that this way our waiting debt is evening a bit.

 You may also not come at all. Then I may stay till it stops raining or maybe even a bit longer - until all of the raindrops from the canopy fall to the ground. At that point I may forget I was waiting for you.

Sixty-one.

birth

I was born in the month

of falling stars

maybe my parents

should have thought of it

as a sign

an omen

of yet not determined

nature

instead they looked up

only to name

the constellations

- and once

there was nothing left

to name -

they talked about

the Theory of Everything

I was born in the year

of the rat

or

(that's what
my parents said)

 in the year

2⁶ x 31¹

- it was
a good year
(they added)

I was born.

I like to think about numbers because then I don't have to think about us

I will think of the number

between 1 and 10

and this number will be you

we both know

it can't be even

- just because you are

so odd

and nothing about you

can be divided by

anything else 

but one

or by me

we both pretend

that we are asleep

at night

and it could go unnoticed

if it wasn't for all the bruises

under our eyes

that grow bigger

and bolder

every morning

I will think of the number

that later on

you will press into my ear

with your breath

(another sunrise)