Expressions have no solutions.
This is their design, their truth—
a labyrinth of numbers and symbols
meant to remain unbalanced,
a perpetual seeking without finding.
We accept this, don't we?
We know the equation was never meant to be solved.
We don't ask the horizon to arrive,
don't demand the ocean to rest.
But life—
life defies this acceptance.
It dares us to search for closure,
to gather meaning where none was promised.
We pull at its threads,
measure its weight,
crave its resolution.
And yet, no conclusion comes.
It unravels in our hands,
a tapestry with no final weave,
each loose end
a testament to futility.
Hope falters; the thread frays.
We stand in the silence of the unsolved.
But then—
what if the pattern is only visible when unfinished?
or
Life is not an equation.
Expressions float, incomplete—
a tangle of symbols without resolve.
We accept this, do we not?
We do not demand the sum of the wind
or solve for the stars in their arc.
It is the nature of things to remain
unsolved,
unfinished,
frustratingly open-ended.
Yet, life is not like this, we tell ourselves.
We crave its answers,
hunt for its meaning,
as if the chaos could be balanced,
as if a solution is owed.
But there is no owed answer.
The weight of time will not simplify.
The equations we build collapse under their own complexity.
We are left with fragments,
and in those fragments—
only the hollow echo of the unsolved.
:
"What if being unsolved is the solution?"
