Patterns, rhythm, predictability.
These things call to us with a power as primal as breath;
soothing, smoothing the random chaos
swirling in the maelstrom.
If there is no pattern we try desperately to impose one:
connect the dots and believe they form a recognizable shape;
line up random facts and force them to make some sense
where none exists;
create tenuous threads to hold our world together
even as it shreds beneath our fingertips.
We need the patterns.
Our brains require those facts to line up like little soldiers in a row.
We want to know
that the ripples spiralling outward from a droplet on smooth water
will keep on forming perfect circles, ever larger circles,
forever to the shore.
We revere the sacred labyrinth at Chartres, France.
We walk the mystical pattern said to heal the soul,
following that mathematically perfect trail
of loops ever folding back upon themselves
one upon another until you wind your way
to the centre of the universe
and back again to the beginning of all life.
Magic made of stone, made of patterns
all in satisfying balance.
Madness lies within the random wildness
of our world,
a world that makes no sense to our linear brain.
There are no reasons,
no master plan, no meaning.
It happens because it does; that’s all.
We cannot stand back far enough to see
that chaos is the pattern.