A fool is wiser than the wisest man without a goal.
For all he does in this fabric of reality is sit still, doing nothing,
as infinity quietly passes him by.
Like the curve of (y = 1/x),
he draws closer and closer to the edge of meaning,
approaching purpose but never touching it.
He exists,
he moves,
he breathes,
but he never arrives.
A life without direction becomes an endless loop of motion
that never materializes into something tangible.
It’s not that the journey is worthless —
there’s value in the mere act of being,
of nearing,
of almost.
But without a goal,
without that crossing point,
even the wisest mind risks fading into a mathematical ghost,
forever tracing a line it can never touch.
