The Point

A point is not an object. It has no weight, colour, nothing, no physical property. It has no dimension. It does not exist.

But it has one property: its position. Although it does not exist, that does not hinder it from occupying a position in its plane.

A point has no idea what it is. It barely exists, come on now. If it could exist beyond its pathetic confined state, maybe it could have known a thing or two about what it is, but it doesn’t, and we can’t do anything about it, can we.

If a point could accept its miserable pointless existence in space and get over it, if it could give up clinging to its single position and actually believe that there’s more to existence than this appointed corner, perhaps if it could question, and want to know, then — I don’t know — then maybe I could tell it a few things.

I could actually tell him that he isn’t as pitiful as he imagines himself to be, that there’s nothing to feel sad about really. I could, you know, actually go ahead and tell him that the big guys he worships and idolizes, namely the Lines, are just collections of points like him, and he could be like them if he wanted to be, and actually have a dimension and all, and have a direction to go towards, be straight or swing around or come around and intersect itself and all that pomp and show those Lines put up.

And what’s more, yes, I am going to tell him that his world, this Plane of which he is an infinitesimal corner, a position, is nothing more than an infinite number of miserable points like himself, defining each position in which this world exists. Forget about Lines, — those arrogant show-offs — I’m saying this world wouldn’t exist without a point to define each instance of its existence. Wake, Point, to reality. This world is a collection of you. You are a part, and you are the whole. You are nothing, for if I remove you, there will still be infinite other points to form this Plane. And yet you are all, for if I remove the Point, what will the Plane consist of?

I don’t know if you listened to me, Point. Perhaps you have not. Or perhaps you have, but you do not believe me. I’m not surprised. You have it in your nature. You are afraid of power and ability. That is why you so few of you can rise to be Lines and have direction, and so few of you are not afraid to unify with the Plane and be one with it. That is why your kind rarely make a mark, in spite of there being an infinite number of them.

I pity you, Point.


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