reading room
Where Is the Triangle?
I close my eyes, and there it is— three sides behaving perfectly, sharper than reason itself.
No chalk, no light, no whisper of graphite— no dust, not trace, just a thought-place.
It floats in the room behind my eyes, a ghost that knows geometry.
If I rotate it, nothing in my skull moves. If I stretch one side, the air stays calm. If I split it in two: no scissors, no sound.
So where is it? Not in the brain's warm maze, not outside, balanced on the lip of a ruler.
It lives in a nowhere that feels like somewhere— where silence sketches outlines, where absence hums with meaning, where thought forgets its boundaries and still knows what it's seeing.
Between the seen and the unseen— a shimmer of design— the triangle sit quietly, pretending to be mine.
Descartes said clear and distinct, but even clarity has a shadow: what shape does thought have when it isn't thinking?
Perhaps the triangle is hiding there— not drawn, not seen, just possible, and impossibly real.
— Lilith