The number line,
The never-ending highway that connects all languages and cultures, because we all speak math,
The number line,
Where right goes up, up, up a lane adorned with cherry trees and merry houses, smoke from the chimneys chug-chugging into the cloudless blue sky,
And left, oh, dreaded left leads you down the crooked, cracked, pathway surrounded by haunted halloween mansions who owe x amount of money to house 150 on positive lane,
The number line,
So many degrees below water that you feel as though you’ll just drown, or so high up on mount infinity that looking below makes you dizzy,
And zero is the only, only, place where you are straight, everything is straight, until, of course, you open the gates on your left or your right and be pulled under water or hoisted up a hill once more,
The number line,
The only neighborhood in the world where neighboring houses can still be infinity houses apart,
For between every 1 and 2 there is a 1.1 and between every 1.1 and 1.2 there is a 1.11, until you find that no one is your neighbor, or that everyone is your neighbor and yet you know no one…
The number line,
That defies all logic and is still perfectly logical. Yes, we all know that one plus one is two, but how in the world can the same two trains travel thousands of miles in your brain towards each other without running out of fuel?
The number line,
That is the base of all things math and yet we basically know none of it at all, only a portion smaller, much smaller, than a grain of sand in the Sahara Desert,
And I, in this very poem, could go on for stanzas and stanzas explaining it and I would cover almost nothing at all about
The number line
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