I stare at the page

for hours

minutes

moments.

I blink. It’s all

wrong. I’m just . . .

Not seeing it right.

That’s all.

A few more staring

moments, and it will be

solved.

I know this test.

I know the questions.

I know the methods that give me

the answers.

The right answers.

They hammer their objections

of the walls of

my mind.

This is wrong, they clamor.

I know, I whisper

back.

The question and the method

don’t fit. Like

strong magnets

the push themselves

apart.

The don’t like this either.

Don’t worry, I tell them.

Just give me

a moment.

We’ll find it:

the amicable solution.

But the amicable solution

is gone.

On holiday, perhaps.

Dancing

in someone else’s mind. Or

just maybe

ir doesn’t exist.

The method collapses, exhausted,

depressed.

I can’t do it, it mutters.

I know, I reply. And it’s

okay. You’re not

responsible.

The problem

is.

We glare, in unison,

at the black letters,

constrictions,

bars

on a jail cell.

The stipulations

that define our

chains. Our

heavy chains.

At this thought, something

stirs in the back

of my mind.

An old method, ancient,

really, considering

all I’ve learned since.

Chained? it asks.

Are you bounded?

I grimace at

the cruel pun before

recognizing

its point.

No, I whisper.

I’m not.

One way out

is blocked.

The other, however . . .

clear as day.

Easy, the ancient method murmurs.

Come with me, and I’ll

show you the easy way.

The other method

raises a feeble

objection.

No, it croaks, a dying man asking

for a last favor.

Please, no. You have

to use me.

The problem says so.

What is the point of math? the ancient method snarls.

Is it not to

solve the problem?

I solve.

I will put your mind

at rest.

One swift thrust of

the cold blade of

logic, and it has dispatched

the dying method.

I am set on my

new path.