There was once a time of innocence one might dare say during which physics, chemistry, and mathematics found themselves in the opposite worldly bank from the ineffectively omnipotent hegemony of philosophy. During those years, the teaching of the former and the unsolicited configuration of the latter cross-checked continuously through the form of amicable clashes, bloodless wars for the sake of art and naturally, aesthetics. Naturally.
And within the small experimental booth with the lobes and the neurons myriads of information contravened with deliriously melancholic and immaterial ideas for an extra piece of time. However, growing up one came to find – maybe randomly, maybe not – that the sides of the forehead were in reality sides of the coin, and that was majorly justified by the nexus between “learning” and “realising.”
Therefore one would take this way to a dynamic harmony that strived for the mix of idea and fact to represent an optimistic evidence of failure, in any case some sort of evidence. Until one day it eventually becomes obvious that facts don’t constitute peace tools, that gravity isn’t restricted in sides, that mathematics don’t structure horizons but restrictions, and that no idea is free of principles.
And one knows – cannily determined to find out only when the outcome matters no more – that gravity reigns where ideas lack wings. That the major mathematical function is set by sensuous, simple, expandable, and retractable variables. The second law of thermodynamics bears penalties in any dimension which allows its breach as no efficiency will ever be above or even equal to 1, which constitutes but a token of flesh.
Eventually, silence is no more than a remembrance of a law with an exceptionally revealing – truly what a coincidence! – mnemonic rule: quit asking.