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Pick a point. In spacetime, I mean; let's keep politics out of this.

This point in spacetime, is it nearby? Is it somewhere you can see, perhaps? A familiar place, a person you know? Or is it on the far end of infinity, where naught but thought can ever reach it, forever outside of our frame of reference as a Type 0 civilization?

Regardless, I want you to imagine for just a moment the line between you and the point you've picked. A line exactly 1 length long, no matter how long such a length is. The distance between you and your pretty big-titty goth girlfriend is exactly as useful as the line between us and the edge of the universe, or the line between you and the next nearest person who's into your exact collection of specific fetishes, you dirty pervert.

Think of that line. Like a string, suspended taught across reality between two points.

Now, I want you to think of the effort it would take to cross exactly half of that distance. Did you imagine walking across a room, perhaps? Or firing a rocket across the solar system? Perhaps you imagined time instead, halfway between now and then. Or a process, halfway between grinding up innocent chipmunks for their bone marrow and arriving at the final product of nutritionally complete cheese doodles. Stop imagining weird things, you freak; this is a thought exercise about the indescribable infinite, not some sick woodland creature genocide.

Now, think of that halfway point. What's half? Is it a distance? A wait? A weight? A measure of success? What if you can't reach it with the tools you have available? What if just half of your destination is still a goal beyond your reach? Can you find the halfway point without assistance?

Divide it again, then. Half of half; a quarter. Is that a more attainable goal? Half of half the way to the ends of the observable universe, a mere quarter of the infinite? Half of half the way to asking your crush to prom, a mere quarter of the impossible? Draw a demarcation at the point in space at which one quarter of your point is made, achieved, realized. Is that a goal worth achieving in and of itself?

What about half of that--an eighth? Is one eighth of infinity a potentially viable goal? Could you zip over by Tuesday, putter around a bit before heading back for tea and biscuits? Is an eighth of eternity something worth waiting for, considering the costs of waiting?

Divide it again. And again. Now we're at one thirty-secondths of the line you have arbitrarily picked. Can you do 1/32nds of your goals? Can you have 1/32nds of a baby, 1/32nds of learning a language? What does it even mean to ask your crush to prom by a mere 1/32nds' worth? Have we subdivided the possible too much?

Nonsense.

Half, and half again. Sixty fourths and one-twenty-eighths. Much more achievable, yes? You can achieve 1/128 of getting into shape, or 1/128 of getting hired at NASA, right? That's... what, a few dozen situps? Finishing algebra with a passing grade? How do you define 1/128th of the way to accomplishing your goal, reaching the end of your line?

How fast do you have to go to reach 1/256th of escape velocity? How hard do you have to hit, to win 1/512th of a boxing heavyweight championship? What's 1/1028th of using technological augmentation to survive until the heat death of the universe? How many bananas in your rectum is 1/2056ths of the way to setting an unbreakable world record that, frankly, no one else wants to attempt?

My point is, we narrative-thinking primates draw lines that can be broken down as much as we may desire, but which aren't useful or even realistic as goalposts. We pretend to think in fractions to justify our lack of goal accomplishment, when really we should be practicing releasing the expectations of specific and potentially self-destructive goals in the first place. 1/5012ths of a goal is as meaningless as stochastic noise, and just as useful to our psyche. Learning that I'm 1/10,024th of the way to living forever is just as useful as learning that I'm 1/20058ths of the way to turning myself into chipmunk bone marrow soup.

'Do or do not; there is no try.' It's the battlecry of the dichotomists, who hate the thought of nuance and draw their lines directly between possibilities, with no subdivisions permitted. But the idea of binary achievement between nuanced states, a simple 1/0, is exactly how the human brain comprehends incomplete achievement. I ate half the world-record burrito in a single sitting; I gave my children 1/16th of a bath. It means nothing.

Our world, our goals, our spacetime; they're entirely indescribable, except in meaningless and arbitrary subdivisions of achievement. A hundredth of a sandwich; a tenth of the way to success. We can't achieve most of our goals--the lines we draw from where we are to where we want to be--without dividing them in ways that make no sense outside of a single and silly frame of reference.

Perhaps I am describing the indescribable. Perhaps I am 1/2 insane, making 1/4 of a valid argument while relying on 1/8th of a logical fallacy. Perhaps the world really is just fractions, and whole numbers is a delusion we have decided upon, to demarcate accomplishments we will never attain.

Or perhaps there is an attainable halfway point, between ourselves and the person we will one day become. And perhaps you are halfway down the road of destiny, looking for the next quarter or eighth or sixteenth of the way, trying to achieve the one-ness you long for. Perhaps no matter how far you go, how much you divide your journey, you will always be one length away from eternity, and one accomplishment away from immortality.

Whatever the case, I'll see you halfway to the indescribable. It's a maddening line, and we travel in fractions, but if we just keep working at it, perhaps one day we will get there. I'm nearly half certain, even though I'm only 1/0th of the way there.

I spend an inordinate amount of time combing through my recipe books and the Internet, trying to decide which feels right. Something that is more exciting and your average meat-and-potatoes meal, but isn’t so far out of my wheelhouse that I’m a frayed mess by the time I serve it. He has never complained about the food I’ve provided, but I’m always pushing myself to improve, to impress.

I land on a recipe that has many of his favorite components - it’s simple, but has complex enough flavors that I can feel my mind parsing through the steps in excitement. I set myself to work, chopping vegetables and trying not to maim myself as I dance to the music from my speaker. I’m in my element, drawing upon practiced motions that come to me like breathing.

As the ingredients hit the pan and sizzle, my mouth is already watering at the scents rising from the stove. A little shallot, some seasonings, and chicken thighs come together as my music continues in the background, a swaying performance that will hit its climax as he brings the first bite to his tongue.

The food prepared and dished out, I call him over to taste as my heart swells with the hope that he loves it. He gives me a kiss first, and is sure to tell me that everything smells incredible. Since he has a cast iron tongue and refuses to bow to the human demands of temperature, he takes his first bite without a care. I watch carefully for the telltale signs - his shoulders relaxing, his eyes closing, a pause in chewing. All are reflected back to me as he sighs and turns back to smile at me. “This is amazing, why is everything you make amazing?” he asks. I just smile and swat at his shoulder. He shakes his head, laughing. “You really are a fantastic cook. Thank you for making this for me.”

Little does he know, those words will buoy me to the next meal. As they will the next, and the next.

Maybe a bit silly, but I've always found a simple peace and joy in preparing and cooking a meal for other people who love my food, one that I can't really describe :)

Nothing wrong with that. I liked it.